bared. I grab at Opal again before she can stumble forward and stab it by accident.
“Velvet, it’s a puppy!”
Earlier, my hands were shaking. Now my heart’s pounding. I taste sweat when I lick my upper lip, and my armpits are sour with it. I don’t let go of the mop handle, but I do lower it.
Opal turns to me with a wide grin. “Isn’t he cute?”
The puppy looks like a German shepherd, or a shepherd mix. It yips and manages a snarl that will be impressive in a few months but now only earns an “aww” from Opal. Shereaches for it, but the terrified puppy snaps at her fingers and backs up a step.
Opal follows, and so do I, trying again to snag her to a stop. I didn’t chase off a pack of hungry dogs just to have her end up with bitten fingers, anyway. The puppy snarls, backing up again, then begins to whine. She crouches and holds out a hand to the puppy. “Hey. Hey, little guy. Don’t be afraid.”
“Opal, don’t. He might bite you.”
“He’s just scared.” She looks at me over her shoulder. “He’s just a baby, Velvet. He’s scared and alone. Can we keep him?”
The puppy has allowed Opal to inch closer. It’s still trembling but no longer snarling. It sniffs her hand, then gives it a tentative lick. Opal looks at me with big puppy eyes herself.
I’m not sure I want to take on a pet, not with all the other responsibilities. But how can I leave this little guy behind without anyone to take care of it? I think about the pet lady’s house. The clawed cupboards. The poor, sad dead pig. This puppy will starve and die in this house alone, and if we let it outside, it’ll be destroyed by the pack. Or it’ll become part of it, and I don’t want that, either.
Opal sees me wavering. “Hooray!”
“But you have to take care of him,” I warn. “Feed him, take him out. If he makes a mess in the house, you have to clean it up—”
“Duh.” Opal looks annoyed, then turns her attention back to the pup. “C’mere, little sweetie.”
The puppy, wiggling its butt, moves closer. Opal pets it gently. It flops onto its back, legs in the air, and wiggles.
“See,” my sister says confidently, “he loves me.”
In the kitchen, we find a couple of bags of dog food in a cupboard. I look out the back door into the yard. If there are chickens, that’s where they must be. Opal’s busy petting and cooing over the puppy in her arms. She giggles when it licks her face, and she puts it down to let it run out into the backyard. We find the chicken coop, all right, but something’s worked a hole in the wire fence around it. Inside, we find nests filled with hay and the overwhelming stench of chicken poop. We find a lot of feathers. But we don’t find any chickens.
The puppy runs around and around, barking, until we go to the back side of the coop. There, huddled in the dirt in a scooped-out hollow beneath the coop, is a bedraggled red chicken. The puppy noses it, but it barely moves.
“Is it dead?” Opal asks.
I bend to look at it. The chicken eyes me, beak half open. It doesn’t move when I touch it. “No.”
“Is it hurt?”
Carefully, I lift the chicken out of its hiding place. This chicken’s been through some trouble. Cradling it against me, I try to check it for injuries and find no blood. “Maybe it’s just scared.”
“I’d be scared,” Opal says matter-of-factly, “if all my friends got eaten up.”
“Let’s see if we can find some chicken feed.”
I look around for a shed, but there isn’t one. Aside from the coop, surrounded by the wire fencing, the yard’s bare except for a raised bed that must’ve been a garden. It makes so much sense to do it that way—the soil’s so poor here, so full of rocks, that I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before now. It would work so much better than trying to use clay pots barely big enough for a few herbs. There’s nothing planted in the raised bed, only dirt, but when I filter some through my fingers, it’s soft and rich.
“Velvet, it’s a puppy!”
Earlier, my hands were shaking. Now my heart’s pounding. I taste sweat when I lick my upper lip, and my armpits are sour with it. I don’t let go of the mop handle, but I do lower it.
Opal turns to me with a wide grin. “Isn’t he cute?”
The puppy looks like a German shepherd, or a shepherd mix. It yips and manages a snarl that will be impressive in a few months but now only earns an “aww” from Opal. Shereaches for it, but the terrified puppy snaps at her fingers and backs up a step.
Opal follows, and so do I, trying again to snag her to a stop. I didn’t chase off a pack of hungry dogs just to have her end up with bitten fingers, anyway. The puppy snarls, backing up again, then begins to whine. She crouches and holds out a hand to the puppy. “Hey. Hey, little guy. Don’t be afraid.”
“Opal, don’t. He might bite you.”
“He’s just scared.” She looks at me over her shoulder. “He’s just a baby, Velvet. He’s scared and alone. Can we keep him?”
The puppy has allowed Opal to inch closer. It’s still trembling but no longer snarling. It sniffs her hand, then gives it a tentative lick. Opal looks at me with big puppy eyes herself.
I’m not sure I want to take on a pet, not with all the other responsibilities. But how can I leave this little guy behind without anyone to take care of it? I think about the pet lady’s house. The clawed cupboards. The poor, sad dead pig. This puppy will starve and die in this house alone, and if we let it outside, it’ll be destroyed by the pack. Or it’ll become part of it, and I don’t want that, either.
Opal sees me wavering. “Hooray!”
“But you have to take care of him,” I warn. “Feed him, take him out. If he makes a mess in the house, you have to clean it up—”
“Duh.” Opal looks annoyed, then turns her attention back to the pup. “C’mere, little sweetie.”
The puppy, wiggling its butt, moves closer. Opal pets it gently. It flops onto its back, legs in the air, and wiggles.
“See,” my sister says confidently, “he loves me.”
In the kitchen, we find a couple of bags of dog food in a cupboard. I look out the back door into the yard. If there are chickens, that’s where they must be. Opal’s busy petting and cooing over the puppy in her arms. She giggles when it licks her face, and she puts it down to let it run out into the backyard. We find the chicken coop, all right, but something’s worked a hole in the wire fence around it. Inside, we find nests filled with hay and the overwhelming stench of chicken poop. We find a lot of feathers. But we don’t find any chickens.
The puppy runs around and around, barking, until we go to the back side of the coop. There, huddled in the dirt in a scooped-out hollow beneath the coop, is a bedraggled red chicken. The puppy noses it, but it barely moves.
“Is it dead?” Opal asks.
I bend to look at it. The chicken eyes me, beak half open. It doesn’t move when I touch it. “No.”
“Is it hurt?”
Carefully, I lift the chicken out of its hiding place. This chicken’s been through some trouble. Cradling it against me, I try to check it for injuries and find no blood. “Maybe it’s just scared.”
“I’d be scared,” Opal says matter-of-factly, “if all my friends got eaten up.”
“Let’s see if we can find some chicken feed.”
I look around for a shed, but there isn’t one. Aside from the coop, surrounded by the wire fencing, the yard’s bare except for a raised bed that must’ve been a garden. It makes so much sense to do it that way—the soil’s so poor here, so full of rocks, that I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before now. It would work so much better than trying to use clay pots barely big enough for a few herbs. There’s nothing planted in the raised bed, only dirt, but when I filter some through my fingers, it’s soft and rich.
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