Read Online A Shiloh Christmas by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor - Free Book Online

Dr. Collins tells me Ollie’s heart’s failing, kidneys are failing, and he suspects he’s got a tumor somewhere, giving him pain.
    Miss Bowen can’t hardly stand being in the room when Ollie gets the needle, but can’t stand not being there neither, so she wants all the loving hands on her pet we can provide, and Dr. Collins asks can I come in and stroke the dog till its over.
    Miss Bowen has her hands on Ollie’s head, her face against his muzzle. I’m stroking Ollie’s flank.
    â€œReady?” Dr. Collins asks, real gentle.
    â€œOh, Ollie, I love you so,” the lady sobs, and I got a lump in my own throat.
    Dr. Collins gives the needle, and Ollie don’t even jerk or flinch. His breathing stops, and a few seconds later Miss Bowen raises up and looks at him, and his eyes look just like glass marbles, not moving at all.
    I hope I don’t have to assist in any more going-to-sleep sessions, but I’ll have to if I get to be a vet. Every time a dog comes in hurting, I think of Shiloh.

    Even though I’m going home at noon this time instead of helping Dad deliver mail, he stops at Wallace’s store in Friendly so I can buy me a PayDay candy bar—the way I treat myself for helping out at the clinic. Split it with Dad. Be nice if I could ever get a real part-time job at the clinic—get paid with money, not candy.
    Ma had a headache this morning, so after Dad drops me off at home, she lies down for a nap and I keep the girls quiet out on the porch making a straw man. We’ve got us an old pillowcase, an old shirt and overalls of Dad’s, and a raggedy pair of work gloves, and we’re cramming them full of straw. We’ll have that man sitting out here on the porch come Halloween. Dad says we can have the bale of straw he got for the chicken house to usefor stuffing, and after Halloween’s over, we’ll give it back to the chickens.
    Shiloh’s lying beside me, glad for a bit of sunshine, and Tangerine’s jumping at every twitch of his tail, trying to catch it.
    I found a perfect box for the head, and Becky’s stuffing the arms. Dara Lynn took the job of patiently pushing crushed straw into each finger of the work gloves.
    â€œSee how real they look if I don’t make ’em too stiff?” she says, holding up one glove. “We can bend ’em a little at the joints.”
    Becky lifts her head and scrunches up her nose. “What’s that?” she asks, and sniffs.
    I’m sniffing at about the same time. “Somebody must be burning leaves,” I tell her. “Against the law when it’s so dry.”
    â€œI smell it too,” says Dara Lynn.
    I put down the box and look out across Middle Island Creek, at the woods far off on Old Creek Road. I see a cloud of gray smoke rising up over the tops of the trees. Then I go out in the yard and climb on top the shed.
    It’s getting windier, and I can’t tell if the smoke is all in one place or moving along. All in one place, it’sprobably somebody’s trash pit. But far down, I see this yellow-orange color, and it’s moving. Dancing.
    I jump down and yell, “Go inside and wake Ma. Tell her there’s a fire! It’s coming down Old Creek Road. And don’t you move from here ’less Ma goes with you.”
    And leaving Shiloh and the girls behind, I leap on my bike, go racing down the lane, and thunder across the planks of the bridge.

seven
    A LL I CAN THINK OF is Judd’s dogs, penned up in his backyard. Judd’s been working six days a week now at Whelan’s. Don’t get off till five. Can already see them in my head, smelling the danger, yelping and throwing themselves against the fence, trying to get out.
    I pedal like mad, all the while hoping that maybe a neighbor’s already opened the gate—the one neighbor close enough to see, anyway. But deep down I’m thinkin’ that anybody who looks out and sees