Dog Days

Scrap That Plan

"What's wrong?" Paul asked. "That," Larry said. He pointed to the piece of cardboard taped to the fence beside the gate. Paul stared at the sign. "I can't read. What does it say?" "It's the price he's paying for paper and aluminum," Larry told him. "It went down. I won't get as much as I thought." "Maybe it's a mistake," Paul said. "No such luck," Larry answered, shaking his head. He'd learned that lesson at the market—prices changed. But why did they always have to change in the worst possible way? Why couldn't the price of dog food go down and the price of scrap metal go up? He guessed it was for the same reason that dogs wandered the streets and people got sick—life wasn't always fair. "Well, it's not good, but it's better than nothing," Larry said, sighing. He pulled his wagon along the gravel path that led to the scales.

Fang, the dog who guarded the scrap yard, snarled and rushed out from the shed where he lived. But as soon as he recognized Larry, he wagged his tail. Two years ago, Larry had found the dog huddled and shivering in the rain by the bowling alley. It was barely more than a puppy back then. He'd brought it home, cared for it, and named it Lucky. Mr. Penwood, who owned the scrap yard, wanted a dog. He'd given Lucky a new home and a new name. "Scrap yard dogs need tough names," he'd explained. "Now he's Fang." Paul moved behind the wagon, putting it between himself and Fang. "Hi, boy," Larry said, petting the dog. "Mister Penwood, I'm here at the scale," he shouted. "Be right with you," a voice called from the other side of a pile of tires. "Go ahead and load it up." Larry stacked the newspapers on the scale. "Let's see what you have," Mr. Penwood said as he walked up to the scale. He slid the weights at the top, squinted at the numbers, then took the papers off the scale and weighed the cans. "Okay, eight plus seven is fifteen, carry the one . . ." He mumbled a bit more, scrunched his brows as if thinking, then dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. "Sorry about this," he said as he counted out the money, "but there's so much scrap thatthe prices had to go down. Everybody's recycling. Especially now with the new town law. Supply and demand. That's life, I guess." "Thanks." Larry took the money. This isn't going to help very much, he thought. He knew he had to find some way to earn more. There wasn't anything else he could do that evening. But tomorrow he'd search all over town. Surely someone would have some kind of work for a kid. He was willing to do anything—the dogs couldn't go without food. If he wasn't able to feed them, he'd have to take them to the dog pound. He didn't even want to think about that. "Here, this is for helping." Larry gave his brother a dime. "Wow, thanks," Paul said. He looked down at the coin in his palm as if he'd been handed a sack of gold. "Dad said a penny saved is a penny earned. So I guess this is ten pennies earned. Right?" "Right." That gave Larry an idea. He hated to ask, but he didn't have much choice. "Hey, Paul, do you have any money saved up?" "Yeah. I have a whole bunch," Paul said. "Really?" Larry's heart beat faster at the news. "How much?" "Three dimes and two quarters," Paul said. "Four dimes now," he added, grinning. "That's a lot, isn't it? I'm almost rich." "Yup, that's a lot." Larry realized that Paul's life savings weren't going to be any help. He gave Fang another pat on the head. The dog rolled over and let Larry rub his belly. "Come on," Larry said to Paul. "He wants you to scratch him."

Paul inched over, taking small, shuffling steps like someone crossing an icy sidewalk. He reached out and gave Fang's belly a quick scratch, then jerked his hand away. Larry waited until it was obvious that Paul wasn't going to try again. "Let's go," he said. "Come on, I'll give you a ride." Larry pulled the wagon home. When he got there, he went into the yard to feed the dogs again. "Hey, guys, have you ever thought about going on a diet?" he asked as he watched Buck, Hobo, and Duke gobble up the food. They didn't answer him with words. Instead, they filled the air with crunching sounds. In the bowls, the chunks of dry food disappeared like coins in a magician's hand. After the dogs finished attacking the food, they attacked Larry with paws and tongues and wet noses. He fell on the ground and rolled around with them, buried in an avalanche of furry affection. It's worth it, he thought as he scratched Buck behind the ear with one hand and pushed Duke's muzzle away from his own ear with the other. Whatever he had to do to keep these dogs fed, it was worth it. He petted Buck, remembering how scared and nervous the dog had been when Larry first found him. Somebody had mistreated Buck. Hobo, on the other hand, had always been a clown. And Duke, who had lots of energy, was the leader of the pack.

As Larry played with the dogs, he found himself thinking about the dog in the alley. Why did it growl? Where did it eat? Did anyone ever pet it? He knew that if he brought the dog home, it would stop growling at him. Maybe it would even become as friendly as these three. "Don't even think about doing that," he said out loud. Hobo cocked his head and stared at Larry when he spoke. Larry laughed and petted the dog. "Don't worry. I'm just talking to myself. I found a new friend for you, but I get the feeling you'll never meet him." Larry got up and went inside, carrying the nearly empty bag with him. He'd have to open the new bag soon. And once it was opened, it wouldn't last long. I'll come up with some way to make money tomorrow, he thought as he closed the back door. I have to.