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custody.”
    â€œI guess I was upset about a lot of things,” I admitted, “so I said things I was sorry for.” Maybe it’s easier to talk about some things over the telephone, rather than face to face.
    â€œThat’s what Mom said.” Barry was silent a moment while I thought, Thank you, Mrs. Brinkerhoff, for understanding.
    Finally Barry said, “You keep him, and I will be his friend. He has shown he likes you best, and I know you exercise him more than I do.Anyway, I don’t like to wash his dish, and he makes my sisters’ cats nervous.”
    â€œGee, Barry…” I was so grateful I could hardly talk.
    â€œThat’s okay.” Barry understood.
    When I got hold of myself, I felt I had to mention one worry. “If I keep him, people will laugh and say they knew we couldn’t manage joint custody. You know how they talked.”
    â€œYeah,” agreed Barry. “They’re saying it already. There ought to be some way around all their stupid remarks they think are so funny.”
    In our silence, I had an idea, a really brilliant idea. “When Mom and Dad got divorced, I heard something about if a kid is old enough and smart enough to form an intelligent preference, he can have something to say about custody. Or something like that. I know I am right about the intelligent preference bit.”
    â€œHey, that sounds great!” Barry was excited. “We can just say Strider is now mature enough to express an intelligent preference, and he decided to live with you.” We laughed like old times.
    â€œAfter all, how many dogs are mature enough to read?” I asked, and we laughed some more. Then I had another thought. “The trouble is, I’m going out for track. I can exercise him in the morning, but if I leave him inside during the day, he eats the rug.”
    â€œNo problem,” said Barry. “Just leave him in our yard like always, and I’ll exercise him during track season. I need to stay in shape for football next year.”
    In a little while, Barry came down the path with Strider’s leash and posture dish. We didn’t have to say we were glad to be friends again. We both knew it. I also knew, but would never say, that Barry is relieved to be rid of the entire responsibility of Strider. I don’t mind washing his dish.
    I hugged my dog. Both halves of him are mine!

March 1
    The first of the month, I was about to hide Strider in the bathroom before Mrs. Smerling could come demanding rent money. Suddenly I changed my mind. Calling this place a shack gets on Mom’s nerves; sneaking around worrying about rent being raised because of my dog gets on my nerves.
    Mrs. Smerling’s thong sandals came slapping down the path; I opened the door and, with Strider by my side, handed her the rent check Mom had waiting on the chair by the door. “Mrs. Smerling, Strider is my dog now,” I informed her. “He has expressed an intelligent preference to live with me instead of living in joint custody.”
    Mrs. Smerling looked surprised and said, “So?”
    â€œSo do you object to my keeping a dog?” I felt a little sick, as if Mom and I were about to become street people.
    â€œYou haven’t fooled me for one minute,” said Mrs. Smerling. “I haven’t objected yet.”
    Whew! I decided to press my luck. “Are you planning to raise our rent because of him?”
    â€œNot unless I have to clean up dog messes.”
    â€œYou won’t,” I promised. “I’ll get a pooper-scooper or an old license plate or something.”
    â€œYou’re a good kid, Leigh,” Mrs. Smerling said. She started to leave, then turned back and asked, “Don’t you need a fence for your dog?”
    Had she noticed the chewed rug? Probably. “A fence would help,” I had to agree.
    â€œSo build one,” said Mrs. Smerling. “A good fence would add to the value of my