Lulu did not want to hear about hardworking Fleischman. She did not want to hear anything nice about Fleischman. She did not, in fact, want to hear anything about Fleischman. He was such a goody-goody, such a sweet little, kind little, helpful little boy, that Lulu could almost throw up when she heard him soppily say to the lady down at the corner, “You don’t have to thank me, Mrs. King. It was an honor to hold your shopping bag.” Or, “You paid me too much for raking your leaves, Mr. Rossi. Take back a dollar and keep it for yourself.” Yecch! And when, in addition, the neighbors would say how cute, how adorable-looking Fleischman looked, Lulu would secretly wish that he would trip on his shoelace and knock out his front teeth.

Maybe you think that Lulu shouldn’t be wishing such wicked wishes. Maybe you’re right. But haven’t you ever met someone who all the moms and the dads in the world thought was JUST PERFECT, someone you’d never be as perfect as, someone who, no matter what kind of excellent stuff you did, would always do more of it and do it better? (I knew a someone like that when I was a kid, and I still could almost throw up just thinking about her!)

But let’s get back to the story. Lulu needed to make some money. And she didn’t want Fleischman getting in her way.

So she walked down the street to his house, where he was sitting on his front stoop playing his flute, which he did whenever he wasn’t earning money, or getting the highest marks ever heard of in school, or being completely adorable by smiling his dear little smile and saying to practically everyone he met, “Have a great—I mean a really great—day.” And his shirt matched his pants, and his pants matched his socks, and his hair didn’t have one single hair sticking up. Plus, next to him was a bowl with a snack, and the snack wasn’t Sugar Clusters but sliced carrots. Just looking at Fleischman made Lulu so annoyed!

“Here’s the deal, Fleischman,” she told him, with her hands on her hips and her eyebrows scrunched together. “I won’t rake anyone’s leaves or carry their groceries. I won’t mail a letter that someone forgot to mail. And in winter I won’t help people pour salt on their sidewalks to keep them from slipping on the ice.”

“That’s interesting,” said Fleischman, carefully putting down his flute and smiling his extremely annoying sweet smile. “But what’s your point?”

“My point,” said Lulu, not smiling back, “is that I’LL stay away from YOUR jobs. But I’m warning you, Fleischman, stay away from MINE.”

“Which jobs are those?” asked Fleischman, getting up from the stoop and offering Lulu a carrot.

“As soon as I decide,” she replied, waving away the carrot, “I will tell you.”

Lulu went home and thought and thought, and then she thought some more, trying to figure out what her jobs should be. But since the name of this story I’m telling is Lulu Walks the Dogs, you already know, of course, what she decided.