Webster

  People kept coming to check on him, and he would wake up for a few seconds, and then go back to sleep. To his shock, later that night, Joan brought in a sleeping bag and slept on the floor right next to him. It made the dog uncomfortable, but he had to admit that it was nice to know that someone was concerned about how he was doing. He couldn’t ever remember having anything like that happen before.

  He spent the next day sitting either on the linoleum, or on the cement in the outdoor run. But, when he was outside, the dogs on either side of him—including the irritating Yorkshire Terrier—kept trying to talk to him, and be friendly, and all—and he just wasn’t into it. Not even a little bit. So, for the most part, he stayed inside, where he could have some privacy.

  At about noon, Monica carried in an early lunch of plain chicken, rice, and yoghurt, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the entire dish of food. Partially because his stomach still hurt, but also because the simple truth was that he really didn’t have any appetite, because he was sad. Very, very sad.

  Maybe the family that had adopted him hadn’t been nice, but it was pretty mind-blowing to get returned to a shelter, like a shirt that didn’t fit, or something. It made him feel small. And damaged.

  Which was really depressing.

  It was creepy to have people peeking in at him all the time, so he got up, pushed through the swinging door, and went out to his cement run for a while. The dog in the cage on his left tried talking to him again, but he pretended he didn’t hear him, and stared blankly out at the farm. It was kind of cold, but he liked being in the fresh air. In fact, he liked it so much that even when it started raining, he stayed outside.

  Later, when Monica brought his dinner in, he quickly gulped down half of it, so that everyone would stop hovering over him already. Then, he went back outside and curled up on the wet cement.

  The next time he woke up, it was dark. The rain was still coming down, and he was completely soaked. Would he get in trouble if he came inside and got the kennel all wet? Maybe. So, it was probably safer to stay outdoors and let the rain keep falling on him.

  On the other hand, it was very quiet, and maybe all of the people and other animals had gone to bed. So, it might be okay to go inside and lie down on the floor. In fact, if no one was looking, he might even finally try out that tempting-looking fleece bed.

  So, the dog hauled himself up from the cement and shook off as much water as he could. Then, he ducked through the swinging door and went inside. Yes! The lights were out everywhere, and he was by himself! Excellent.

  The dog immediately flopped down on the bed, and was delighted to find out how comfortable it was. Wow, he had wasted a lot of time out there on the soggy cement, when he could have been resting in here, instead. When the people got up in the morning and started looking at him, he could always go back outside, if he felt like it.

  With everyone keeping such a close eye on him, he hadn’t seen anything resembling an opportunity to run away. So, he would just have to be patient, and bide his time. Then, when the moment arrived—whoosh! Off he would go, never to return.

  And since he wasn’t sticking around, he couldn’t think of any good reasons to try and be cooperative and fit in. He was a bad dog, right? That was the rumor, anyway. And bad dogs totally were not team players.

  So, okay. He could make his own rules, and be a proud, noble dog that everyone would admire, but never quite understand. He would never depend on anyone again, and no one would ever have a chance to be mean to him. He could picture himself strutting down the street, while people watched eagerly and wished that he would to choose to live with them—not the other way around.

  Yep, that was his plan. He would be a loner. A rebel. A canine icon. They would write inspiring songs and poems in his honor, he would trend all over the Internet, and Hollywood would film unforgettable action movies about him, that did huge box office during their opening weekends.

  Oh, yeah, that would be awesome.

  But, he was going to need a much better name than Webster. It would be hard to be an icon, if he didn’t have a really impressive name. Something memorable, and dashing. A name to create fear and awe in the hearts of all who were lucky enough to pass his way.

  He drifted off to sleep, dreaming about what the journey towards being a canine celebrity would be like. Then, right in the middle of an entertaining part about him being the supreme commander of a pack of admiring and respectful dogs, his eyes flew open.

  What was that?

  Somewhere, out in the corridor, he could hear a strange, scary sound. Was it—stomping? No, it was more like something stumping along. Stumping, and skittering, and—he had never heard anything like it.

  And whatever it was, it sounded like it was headed straight towards him!

  CHAPTER TWO

  The dog scrabbled into the back of his kennel, hoping that the monster wouldn’t notice him in the dark. Luckily, he hadn’t once been named Shadow—by the crummy owners he had had before the mean family—because he was easy to see. He was too big and tough to be afraid of anything, but—well—monsters were different. Monsters were scary.

  Stump, stump, skitter, skitter, stump.

  What was it? Only something extremely dangerous would make eerie noises like that. Okay, it was maybe a small monster, but he knew for sure that it was a monster.

  Then, he heard an even worse noise—something was rattling at the latch on his kennel door.

  Okay, okay. Time to remember that he was a very fearsome, large dog. Maybe the monster would be afraid of him? In fact, if the monster dared to come inside, he would show his teeth, growl fiercely, and then attack it.

  Or, um, maybe slink past it, and run to safety?

  There was a clank, and then slowly—ever so slowly, terrifyingly slowly—the door swung open.

  Okay. This was it. The dog took a deep breath and promised himself that he would be brave, and go down fighting. He would make sure that the monster would remember that he had tangled with a true beast.

  Stump, skitter, stump, skitter. Then, he heard little erratic claws scraping across the floor, and—the monster was standing right in front of him! It had big crooked yellow eyes, and long talons, and—oh.

  It was a cat. A weird-looking, tiny—but frightening—cat, with slightly crossed eyes and a big black splotch across its white face, like a defective mustache.

  Then again, lots of times, cats were untrustworthy and vicious, right? And violent? So, the dog waited, tensely, to see what was going to happen.

  “Hello,” the cat said. “I am Florence.”

  Wait, the cat had a British accent. What was up with that?

  “It’s all right,” the cat said. “Joan and Thomas are upstairs asleep, and it’s after midnight.”

  Even so, the dog just stared at her.

  “Please tell me you know how to talk,” Florence said. “It will be most unsettling, otherwise.”

  Of course he could talk. He just didn’t, very often. Since he had lost his family many months ago, back in Arkansas, his encounters with other animals had usually been brief, and raising his fur or wagging his tail or whatever had been enough.

  “Well?” the cat said, looking impatient.

  “Why do you have a British accent?” he asked.

  It was quiet for a few seconds.

  “Because I can,” Florence said grandly.

  The dog blinked, forgot how aloof he was—and laughed. She might be a cat, but there was still something plucky and hilarious about her.

  “Everyone’s very worried,” Florence said. “I heard them saying that you’re barely eating, and that you’ve mostly just been lying here staring at nothing for hours on end.”

  Yeah. So? The dog didn’t say anything. Or move.

  “Planning on getting up anytime soon?” Florence asked.

  Nope. He was not.

  “Well, I simply won’t have it,” Florence said, and stamped one of her paws on the floor for emphasis. “There’s been
quite enough moping, and you will come with me right now.”

  The dog started to jump to his feet, but then paused. “I don’t want to,” he said. “And I’m a very, very bad dog, missy, so don’t try to argue with me.”

  Florence sighed. “You dogs take rejection so hard—it’s awfully tedious. Now, come along. We have kibble and biscuits.”

  They had food? Okay. He was extremely wicked and all—but, he was also hungry, and besides, she sounded like she meant business.

  She led him down the dark hallway, and he could see that a few of the dogs were sleeping, while other cage doors were open.

  “Do you pick and choose who gets to come out at night?” the dog whispered.

  Florence shook her head. “Some of them are going to the adoption fair tomorrow in town, so they’re resting up. Put their best feet forward and such.”

  The dog wasn’t sure what an adoption fair was, but Florence was stumping so briskly and efficiently down the hall that he was afraid to interrupt her again. Her walk was a strange limping stagger, and as he trotted behind her, he tried to pretend that he hadn’t noticed.

  “I have no cerebellum,” Florence said.

  The dog nodded uneasily.

  “Dr. K. thinks that my mother maybe had distemper when I was born, and so, my brain didn’t form properly, and my balance is a bit dodgy.” Florence paused. “Also, I got hit by a car.”

  Well, that could do it, yeah.

  “And I’m diabetic,” Florence said. “So, I’m unadoptable.”

  The dog noticed that she had only a tiny little stub of a tail, too, but maybe that had happened in the accident with the car. He decided not to mention it, in case it brought back bad memories.

  “However,” Florence said, “you will be happy to know that I have no cognitive impairments whatsoever.” She glanced up at him, and immediately lost her balance and fell over—but then, rolled back up onto her feet. “Well? Are you happy to hear about that?”

  “Um, yes, ma’am,” he said politely. “That’s surely good news. Congratulations.”

  She nodded. “Which is as it should be. You are Webster, correct?”

  “For now,” the dog said. Until he escaped, anyway. “I don’t really like it.”

  “They do their best,” Florence said. “We have so many animals come through here, that I think they’ve run out of names. And Webster is dignified.” She squinted at him with her little crossed eyes. “Although it is not clear to me whether you are dignified. We shall have to see.”

  The dog followed her to the room with the low couches and brightly colored rugs. To his surprise, the den was full of dogs and cats lounging around. It looked almost like they were having a party.

  “This is Webster-Until-He-Gets-A-Better-Name,” Florence announced. “Be sweet to him—he’s still deeply mired in his traumatized phase.”

  The animals all nodded sympathetic nods.

  The room was so crowded that the dog hung back near the door, feeling shy.

  “Well, come on now,” Florence said. “Spit spot!”

  Spit spot?

  “Hey there, Grumpy!” a voice yelled, and he saw the mouthy Yorkshire Terrier over on one of the couches.

  Okay, at least he knew someone in the room. Sort of. The dog gave him a brief nod.

  “That’s Jack,” Florence said. “He’s been here for about four months.”

  “Everybody wants to adopt me,” Jack said proudly. “But, I’m very choosy, and won’t go with just anyone.”

  Another dog, who was a Border Collie mix, laughed. “He’s really loud. Nobody’s taking that little yapper home.”

  From his place on the couch, Jack looked crushed.

  “MacNulty,” Florence said in a warning voice.

  “Sorry, man,” the Border Collie said quickly. “Everyone knows you’re probably the cutest one here—you’ll definitely have a new family before any of the rest of us do.”

  Jack brightened when he heard that. “That’s right! And when it happens, I’ll be sitting pretty.”

  Florence introduced the dog to an elderly female Bernese Mountain Dog mix named Pico, a black cat with white markings named Bert—who had his mouth stuffed with kibble, and a sly-looking tortoiseshell cat named Kerry. The dog knew he would never remember all of the names, but he nodded at each one of them in turn.

  MacNulty, the Border Collie mix, seemed to have a lot of restless energy and kept shifting his weight from one paw to the other, and jumping in place every so often.

  Border Collies were so predictable. “Looking for something to herd?” the dog asked.

  MacNulty nodded. “You bet! I figure I’ll get adopted by some farmers and get to herd all day long. It’s going to be great!”

  Well, okay, whatever. The dog thought it was strange that, apparently, they all not only expected to be adopted, but that they wanted it to happen. He, for one, had no interest in having strangers take him away ever again.

  Florence waved one of her palsied little paws at a hulking German Shepherd who was taking up half of a couch. “And that’s Duke.”

  “I used to be King,” the German Shepherd said. “But, I got downgraded.”

  The dog laughed—but then, realized that the shepherd wasn’t kidding. “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  Duke shrugged amiably. “You never know. I might work my way back up.”

  “And that is Lancelot,” Florence said, indicating a shaggy Afghan Hound mix.

  Lancelot gave him a nod. “Dude,” he said, in a surfer’s drawl.

  “That’s Matthew, up on the shelf,” Florence said, pointing at a scruffy old black cat who was perched on a bookcase.

  “Don’t take it personally, if I bite you,” Matthew said, and showed his teeth. Lots of teeth. “I’m still kind of feral.”

  Okay, good to know. The dog nodded—and kept his distance.

  From a well-padded easy chair, a sleek Seal Point Siamese cat looked at the dog suspiciously. “I’m Benjamin, and I’m from the city. The big city. Do you have a problem with that?”

  What? “No,” the dog said. “Should I?”

  “You should not,” Benjamin said.

  Well, all right. The dog shrugged. “Okay. Then, I don’t.”

  Benjamin narrowed his eyes. “You hesitated. It sounded like you hesitated.” He turned to Florence. “I don’t like him. Send him away!”

  “You certainly enjoy the sound of your own voice,” Florence said wryly.

  Benjamin smiled a wide smile. “Yes, I think it has a very pleasant timbre. Thank you for noticing.”

  The dog was starting to wonder whether these were the animals who had gotten turned down by the Island of Misfit Toys.

  “Food,” Bert, the black-and-white cat, said, staring miserably down at his empty dish. “I need more food.” He sighed, hauled himself up onto all four paws, and then stuck his head inside a large bag of kibble.

  For a minute or so, the only sound in the room was Bert crunching noisily.

  “Well, then,” Florence said. “Moving on now.”

  He met several other dogs and cats, but it was hard to keep track of everyone’s names, especially since he wasn’t exactly Mr. Social. So, the dog just nodded and shrugged, and that sort of thing. It wasn’t like he was planning to be pals with anyone.

  “What’s your story, Webster?” Cole, a stolid grey cat, asked.

  What, was he supposed to tell his sad tale, and emote, and all? Not likely. The dog shrugged. “This is my fourth shelter.” Or fifth? It was hard to keep track. “I’ve pretty much had it. And I don’t like the name Webster, either. I’m going to need something a whole lot cooler than that.”

  “Well, maybe the people who adopt you next will think of a name you like better,” MacNulty said.

  Oh, yeah, right. “No one’s going to want me,” the dog said. Not that he wanted them, either. “I do terrible things.”

  Jack sat up, looking intrigued. “Like what?”

  The dog had never quite figured that out,
so he shrugged.

  “I think that the people were probably not nice, and that it has nothing to do with you,” Kerry said.

  Maybe. “The first time I had a home, I ate cardboard one day,” the dog said. “The part from inside a roll of paper towels. That really bothered them.”

  Duke’s eyes brightened. “Cardboard is good. Cardboard is really good. I love cardboard!”

  The other dogs nodded happily, while the cats all exchanged glances.

  “If you’re not careful, Duke,” Florence said, “you’re going to be bumped down to Earl.”

  Duke looked horrified. “I don’t want that to happen. How low could I go?”

  “No name at all,” Benjamin said, without hesitating. “We would just call you Dog or It.”

  Duke shuddered. “I better be careful, then. Try not to screw up anymore.”

  Did he really not know that cats made dire threats, purely for their own amusement, not because they had actual power? “They’re cats, man,” the dog said. “If they call you a name you don’t like, just don’t answer to it.”

  Duke’s eyes widened even more. “I couldn’t do that. I’m a dog. We answer to our names. Always.”

  Well, on Duke’s planet, maybe.

  “He’s right, Webster,” Florence said.

  The dog automatically looked over at her.

  Florence laughed. “See? You did it yourself.”

  He hadn’t answered to it. He had just been—polite. “Well, all I know for sure is that I don’t want to be adopted again,” the dog said. “Ever.”

  Every single other animal in the room gasped.

  “Everyone wants to be adopted,” Matthew, the scruffy black cat, said. “I’m not even friendly—and I still want my own special family.”

  Okay, so then he would be the exception who proved the rule. “Nope. Not me. Been there, done that, tired of getting kicked around,” the dog said.

  Literally and figuratively.

  “But, the next people might be nice,” Cole said.

  Yeah. Sure. The dog wasn’t going to hold his breath about that. “Nope, I’m done,” he said. “Been adopted. Three times. Didn’t like it. First chance I get, I’m going to escape from here, and make my own way in the world.”