Dog House Read Online Free Page A

trained.”
    And you know, I found that comforting.
    But where dogs were concerned, my library books cheerily offered—because the books I’d picked were British—that all you had to do was take a puppy out whenever it “looked like” it had to go; or every three hours. Whichever came first.
    And there was this, too:
    â€œBeagles shed.”
    Okay, beagles shed. Didn’t all dogs shed?
    Furthermore, beagles were often known to be “independent.” Whatever that meant.
    Millard was independent. Barden was independent. We wanted an independent dog, didn’t we? Not a Velcro dog that wouldn’t let anyone go to the bathroom alone.
    This beagle puppy was adorable, though, and remembering the way his pink tongue had practically permanently attached itself to the back of my hand, I couldn’t begin to imagine that he’d ever show any sort of troubling independence.
    And that’s how, head full of imperfectly assimilated information, I went out and purchased the natty brown leather leash, the dog bowl, the Wee Wee pads (guaranteed to attract anything with a tail), a couple of cans of dog food, a squeaky Snoopy toy and a small bag of dog biscuits, and drove over to the pound where I’d pick up the dog my family so thoroughly deserved.
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    My plan was to surprise Barden with the puppy. When he came dragging in from school that day, a messy welter of half-off jacket, ringleted brown hair, books, shoelaces and gum and hit me with his favorite question, “What’s for dinner, Mom?” (though it was the middle of the afternoon and, as usual, I hadn’t really thought about dinner at all), I vamped:
    â€œSpaghetti.”
    He grinned. Happy.
    â€œBut, Barden, come outside for a minute. I have something I want you to see.”
    And turning him around by the shoulders, I marched him back out the front door and down the four steps to our attached garage. He looked back at me with puzzlement and maybe a touch of defensiveness. Had he done something?
    I reached down and hauled up the door to the carless garage and this little brown-and-white body came barreling out in a froth of fur and tongue and panting and paws. Catching the puppy up in his arms, Barden rolled happily onto the lawn as the day’s dirt and Twinkie crumbs were licked, tongued and lapped off a beloved face transported by joy.
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    Is there anything like those first days with a new dog?
    Everything about this small thrilling being, from those white, needly teeth pulling at your sleeve to the bristly softness of its fur, to the abandon with which it chases after a rubber ball, a piece of biscuit tossed on the floor, or a gnat, is enchanting. Ah, we were so in love—even Millard—after the usual, knee-jerk grumbles about “new,” and “trouble” and “walking at night.” Had there ever been a more sweet-natured, energetic dog? Not for Barden. Not for me, except perhaps for the moment when those little teeth sort of shredded the bottom of the skirt on the just-reupholstered club chair.
    But Barden hadn’t had to drag home some baffled but vaguely willing stray, then lie about how it happened to be standing in my front hall (though now that I thought about it, stray dogs didn’t really exist anymore, not the way they had when I was small). I’d fulfilled his desires for the best little dog in the world even before he knew he had desires. I was unquestionably the World’s Best Mother. That night, he told me so himself.
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    Naturally, I set down—or thought I set down—a few immutable laws. After school, without fail, Barden would have to walk his Tippy (now you know what his tail looked like) and feed his Tippy without fail at night. He might also have to bathe him. (Should dogs bathe?) This was just fair. If a kid was old enough to have a dog, he was old enough to care for it.
    â€œRight?”
    â€œSure, Mom.”
    He was