that wish had given way to the thought of possessing a turtle. But when Casey had pointed out that turtles could be had from just about any body of water from there to Ternsville, Buckshot conceded the point and bent his imagination to having something that most certainly could not be found in the wilds surrounding Melby. That was when he learned of the goldfish. Although he’d yet to see a living and water-breathing one for himself, Buckshot was assured that they were the most remarkable fish in the world. It was his best friend Casey who’d shared this incredible news with him, of course. Casey, living closer to town, and having seen the interior of the magical store “hundreds and hundreds a times,” was the school’s self-appointed pet store expert.
“See, they feed ‘em real gold. That’s how they get that color. They got some with black spots. They get that way from eating coal. So they ain’t hundred percent,” Casey had expounded over baloney sandwiches a few weeks earlier.
Buckshot had finally come to see for himself.
If envy was a sin as dire as the Minister Jason Lee Scott would have Buckshot believe, then the boy was in deep trouble. As he stood slack-jawed, gazing upon the multitude of fish languidly moving about in row after row of tanks lining the walls of the house of exotic pets, Buckshot wished he were as small, that he might dive in and join them in escaping the heat.
“Those are Calico Orandas ,” Mrs. Humble said, as she crept up behind the daydreaming boy. “A beautiful fish, don’t you agree?”
“Huh?” Buckshot startled to his senses.
“Are you looking for a new pet, Buckshot?”
Behind them a pandemonium of parakeets, finches, and love birds squawked, tittered, chirped, and rasped as they demanded attention from Buckshot, Stella Humble, and one another. A few even frustrated themselves with their reflections found in little mirrors hung about their cages. Those doppelgangers did nothing but mock them with mirrored movements in return, of course.
Far in the back of the room, behind several shelves of merchandise which concealed their view but not their odor, caged puppies, cats and kittens added to the menagerie’s racket. The adolescent and mature dogs, some two dozen of them, were kept in kennels out back. Stella and her husband didn’t bother with the breeds that most folks around those parts were interested in. There were no hounds that could be used in hunting, not even bird dogs. No, the house of exotic pets harbored terriers, greyhounds, German shepherds, and schnauzers mostly, with an odd poodle or two thrown in when one struck Stella’s fancy.
Since they weren’t hunting dogs, the stock didn’t move very often, and, as a result, they had become more like pets than merchandise. In fact, on the few occasions that a sale had been made, the ridiculous woman couldn’t help but get weepy-eyed as money and dog changed hands.
To further complicate such transactions, Stella had already named all of her kennel dogs, not considering that most folks didn’t care to buy adult dogs, and those few who did would have preferred to name their new dog themselves. And, as if it weren’t enough that Stella had already named the animals, it was the inane names that she gave them that put off many of the very rare, would-be buyers.
There was Cucumber and Pickles, and Sugarcane and Mittens for the greyhounds, while the three current German shepherds were Bulldozer, Hammy Boy, and Mr. Warbles. In what she thought was clever—because he was so small in stature—she’d named one of the terriers Colossus and then ran with the idea, calling the other diminutive dogs Goliath, Hercules, Samson, Jumbo, and Jugger, which was meant to be short for juggernaut. Probably the worst of all though, was her solitary pug, a dim dog that never came when called, since the poor creature could have never fathomed that its name was Franklin Delano Roosevelt. After that, Stella’s husband had given up
“See, they feed ‘em real gold. That’s how they get that color. They got some with black spots. They get that way from eating coal. So they ain’t hundred percent,” Casey had expounded over baloney sandwiches a few weeks earlier.
Buckshot had finally come to see for himself.
If envy was a sin as dire as the Minister Jason Lee Scott would have Buckshot believe, then the boy was in deep trouble. As he stood slack-jawed, gazing upon the multitude of fish languidly moving about in row after row of tanks lining the walls of the house of exotic pets, Buckshot wished he were as small, that he might dive in and join them in escaping the heat.
“Those are Calico Orandas ,” Mrs. Humble said, as she crept up behind the daydreaming boy. “A beautiful fish, don’t you agree?”
“Huh?” Buckshot startled to his senses.
“Are you looking for a new pet, Buckshot?”
Behind them a pandemonium of parakeets, finches, and love birds squawked, tittered, chirped, and rasped as they demanded attention from Buckshot, Stella Humble, and one another. A few even frustrated themselves with their reflections found in little mirrors hung about their cages. Those doppelgangers did nothing but mock them with mirrored movements in return, of course.
Far in the back of the room, behind several shelves of merchandise which concealed their view but not their odor, caged puppies, cats and kittens added to the menagerie’s racket. The adolescent and mature dogs, some two dozen of them, were kept in kennels out back. Stella and her husband didn’t bother with the breeds that most folks around those parts were interested in. There were no hounds that could be used in hunting, not even bird dogs. No, the house of exotic pets harbored terriers, greyhounds, German shepherds, and schnauzers mostly, with an odd poodle or two thrown in when one struck Stella’s fancy.
Since they weren’t hunting dogs, the stock didn’t move very often, and, as a result, they had become more like pets than merchandise. In fact, on the few occasions that a sale had been made, the ridiculous woman couldn’t help but get weepy-eyed as money and dog changed hands.
To further complicate such transactions, Stella had already named all of her kennel dogs, not considering that most folks didn’t care to buy adult dogs, and those few who did would have preferred to name their new dog themselves. And, as if it weren’t enough that Stella had already named the animals, it was the inane names that she gave them that put off many of the very rare, would-be buyers.
There was Cucumber and Pickles, and Sugarcane and Mittens for the greyhounds, while the three current German shepherds were Bulldozer, Hammy Boy, and Mr. Warbles. In what she thought was clever—because he was so small in stature—she’d named one of the terriers Colossus and then ran with the idea, calling the other diminutive dogs Goliath, Hercules, Samson, Jumbo, and Jugger, which was meant to be short for juggernaut. Probably the worst of all though, was her solitary pug, a dim dog that never came when called, since the poor creature could have never fathomed that its name was Franklin Delano Roosevelt. After that, Stella’s husband had given up
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