Pet Disasters by Claudia Mills

early. He brushed Dog’s wonderfully clean fur (Dog had smelled vastly better ever since his bath) until it was sleek and shining. He hunted for an old toothbrush in the medicine cabinet and brushed Dog’s teeth so that Dog’s breath would smell sweet. He found a roll of blue ribbon on a shelf in his mother’s office and tied a big blue bow around Dog’s neck.

    Then he imagined what Dunk would say about the bow:
Trying to give himaway like a dumb present? Well, nobody wants a dog with three legs
.
    Mason took off the bow.
    At eight-thirty, Brody appeared in the kitchen. Art camp didn’t start until nine o’clock, and it was only a ten-minute walk, but both boys wanted to be early. Mason’s mother was going with them; Mason’s dad and Brody’s parents had to work.
    When Mason’s mother saw Dog on his leash waiting with the boys by the front door, her brow creased. “Are you sure you want to take him?” she asked. “Art shows aren’t really places for pets.”
    “Yes!” Brody said. “Mrs. Gong said we could bring pets. And Dog wants to go. Don’t you, Dog?”
    For an answer, Dog thumped his tail.
    They ended up driving to art camp so they’d have the car for carrying everything home afterward. Dog jumped into the backseat next to Mason and Brody as if he were heading off for some wonderful adventure. Would he be as happy if he knew he was heading off to meet a mean boy and his mean dog?
    Mason wondered if lots of kids would bring their pets. It wasn’t a pet show; it was an art show. He knew at least one other pet would be there: Wolf.
    At the school, Brody took Dog’s leash and led him down the hall to the art room, Mason and his mother following along behind. They were the first ones there, except for Mrs. Gong.
    “Brody! Mason!” She shook hands with Mason’s mother and said some untrue things about what a talented artist Mason was.
    “I think Mason has really
grown
as an artist,” she concluded.
    Mason’s mother’s face was wreathed in smiles. Apparently she didn’t know that “grown as an artist” was code for “isn’t quite as terrible as he was two weeks ago.”
    “And, Brody, this must be your dog. I don’t think I caught his name when you were talking about him the other day.”
    “Dog,” Mason said.
    She looked bewildered.
    “His name is Dog,” Mason explained.
And he’s not Brody’s dog
, Mason wanted to say.
    Two more kids arrived, without pets or parents, and then Nora, with her father but not with her ant farm. Maybe Mason and Brody
would
go see it someday. Nora’s father looked like her: tall, thin, serious.
    Dog seemed completely happy to see Nora when she stooped down to hug him, returning her hug with an affectionate lick. Apparently he had forgiven her for the indignity of the bath. Lots of other kids crowded around Dog, telling him how beautiful he was.
    Mason felt himself beaming. He saw that Brody was beaming, too.
    By nine o’clock, all the other campers had arrived, except for Dunk. Some had parents with them, and one girl had a pet: a cute cocker spaniel named Lulu. Dog and Lulu sniffed each other politely. Not only was Dog beautiful; he had lovely manners, too.
    There was still no sign of Dunk or Wolf. Surely Mrs. Gong hadn’t kicked Dunk out of art camp on the very last day. The best time for kicking Dunk out would have been the first day.
    Then Mason heard loud, sharp barks coming down the hall. In answer, Dog and Lulu began barking, too.
    Into the art room bounded a big, snarling dog, dragging Dunk behind him. Dunk’s mother brought up the rear. Mason had thought she’d look like a larger, grown-up, female version of Dunk, if there could be such a thing. But instead she was small andgray-haired. Maybe she was Dunk’s grandmother. In any case, she didn’t look like someone who could control Dunk
or
Wolf, let alone both of them together.
    “Good morning, everybody!” Mrs. Gong said. “Children, do see if you can make those dogs be more