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“Your dog stinks worse than roadkill, Dill,” Cub says, wrinkling
his nose and puckering his face in a look that screams disgust.
His arms strain under the old tin tub that’s holding
Mom’s flowery-scented shampoo, a few old towels, Dead
End’s dog brush, a plastic cup for rinsing, and a
rawhide bone big enough to choke an elephant.
“Which is exactly why he’s getting a bath with the most
sweet-smelling shampoo I could dig up.” Even the usual
barn smells of hay, oats, and dusty chickens are being
overpowered by the sour stench rising off the wet,
greenish-brown smudges that mat the blond fur of Dead
End’s muzzle, shoulders, and sides. How a pooch could
stink himself up so bad is beyond my twelve-year-old
imagination.
“Sweet-smelling shampoo,” Cub mutters under his breath.
“Just like a girl.”
Dead End
pulls toward the door, determined to break free of his
leash, even if that means snapping my wrist in two like
some dried twig. Still, I manage to get the plastic bag
out from the pocket of my shirt. And sure enough, the
second I toss Dead End the last of the cranberry-raisin
cookies that I’d baked, he forgets about freedom and
snatches the thing without losing a crumb. These cookies
are his favorite treat. Still, I can’t help but be
impressed by his catch.
I let the
plastic bag fall from my fingers. As Dead End starts
snuffling it, looking for more cookies, I pull the barn
door as closed as it will go. But there’s still a gap--a
problem as big as Virginia itself because this dog of
mine has to be kept inside this building.
CLANG!
Cub drops the aluminum
tub on the floor, by the hay bales. The towels go
flying. The bone bounces out and thuds, barely misses
his big toe.
“If G.D.
sees Dead End this filthy, he’ll know he’s been running
again,” I say, watching the silly pooch get his snout
stuck in the plastic bag. “He could tell Lyon.” My dad.
“And that man is in no mood for a misbehaving dog.”
“You haven’t
said anything about that dog takin’ off again to your
granddad or your dad?” Cub shakes his head,
disapproving.
This is pure
Cub, always about truth and playing by the rules. A kid
with a conscience a mile long, one reason why he’s been
my friend since the beginning of first grade, when we
bonded over finding a way to put a baby bird back into
its nest. That connection became glue when we spent most
of the next summer and every school break since
together, making our own fun because we live miles away
from all our other school-friends. And our bond has
turned to cement the last year, because Cub has been
here without me asking him to be. He’s stayed close
during everything that’s happened. And he’s here still.
“Dill,
keepin’ that dog’s runnin’ a secret is bad,” he tells
me, like I don’t know this. “What about the promise you
made to your dad?”
“Dead End
has only run off a few times in the last three months.”
Since Mom left, I don’t add. “Besides, if Lyon
finds out, he’ll take the dog to a shelter.”
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