Authors: Lois Duncan
The fourth issue of
The Bow-Wow News
sold out so quickly that Tim had to run a second printing. Everybody in town was discussing the story about Barkley. Then, to Andi’s astonishment, she began to be contacted by people wanting to buy advertising space. The first was the pet store, which wanted to advertise a line of pooper-scoopers that worked like battery-operated vacuum cleaners. Then an organization called Concerned Citizens for Clean Neighborhoods contacted her about placing a campaign ad for a member of their group who was running for the town council.
But the third call was far less pleasant. It was from Mr. Murdock, who was threatening a lawsuit for invasion of privacy. Andi, who was alone in the house at the time, picked up the receiver and then wished that she had checked caller ID.
“That was libel!” Mr. Murdock exploded. “That lump on the sidewalk was a stone!”
“Our photographer assured us he saw Barkley do it,” Andi said defensively.
“Your photographer is a liar!” Mr. Murdock bellowed and let loose a stream of swear words that caused Andi to cringe. She had never heard anybody use such language before.
It took tremendous effort to keep her voice steady.
“We’ll consult with our legal advisor and get back to you,” she said.
Then she hung up the phone and burst into tears.
Andi was truly scared. What legal advisor could she consult? It certainly couldn’t be her parents. If they thought their children were in trouble, they wouldn’t leave the country, and now that Andi had adjusted to the idea, she wanted them to go. They were wonderful parents and deserved a special celebration. She didn’t know of many families where the parents had been married for fifteen years to the same people they started out with.
She had even adjusted to the thought of three weeks with Aunt Alice — as long as she could make frequent visits to Bebe and Friday.
Now, as she thought of Aunt Alice, it suddenly occurred to her that she might be a possible resource. As a former private investigator, she must know about the law. Maybe she could serve as a legal advisor.
Andi wiped her eyes and dialed her great-aunt’s phone number. As always, it took her some time to get to the phone.
“Hello,” she said, puffing a little as if she had raced in from the yard. Andi could picture her plopping down in the chair next to the telephone table with her garden shears still clutched in one pudgy hand.
“It’s Andi, Aunt Alice,” Andi told her. “I’ve got a question for you. A professional question, just between the two of us. Would that be all right?”
“Of course, dear,” Aunt Alice said readily. “Off the record it will be.” And then she surprised Andi by saying the last thing she expected to hear. “I imagine Mr. Murdock is threatening to sue
The Bow-Wow News.
Am I correct?”
Andi gasped. “How did you know?”
“I was sure he would when I saw his expression in the picture,” Aunt Alice said. “Also, I’ve met that
man at various social functions, and he doesn’t have an easygoing nature. So, your question is, does he have grounds for a lawsuit?”
“Yes,” Andi said faintly.
“Not if the photo was taken on public property and won’t be used for commercial purposes,” Aunt Alice said. “In other words, you are free to print it in your paper, but you can’t sell it to people to use in advertisements. Does that help?”
“It helps a lot,” Andi said. “As a matter of fact, a pet store wants to advertise pooper-scoopers. Their ad is scheduled for our next issue. Should we tell them we can’t print it?”
“You can print it,” said Aunt Alice. “Advertisements are how publications make money. Just don’t link the ad to the picture of Mr. Murdock. Especially if you start selling your paper off the Internet, which I imagine is what you’ll do next.”
“We hadn’t thought about that,” Andi said. “But thank you.”
“Anytime, dear,” Aunt Alice said placidly.
By the time Andi hung up the phone, she was feeling much better.
“I can’t believe you actually called Aunt Alice!” Bruce exclaimed when Andi described what had
happened. “Do you think she’ll blab to Mom and Dad?”
“I’m certain she won’t,” Andi told him. “Our consultation was off the record. She was wonderful, Bruce! It was like she was a whole different person! This must have been what she was like when she was a detective and was working on kidnappings and murders.”
“Have you called Mr. Murdock back yet?” Bruce asked her.
“No,” Andi said. “I just can’t. Will you please call him? If he yells more rude things at me, I’m afraid I’ll cry, and that’s so unprofessional.”
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Bruce agreed reluctantly. He had no more desire to talk to Mr. Murdock than Andi did, but he was, after all, the person who had taken the picture.
He dialed the Murdocks’ number and, to his relief, got the answering machine.
“Murdock residence!” Mr. Murdock’s voice roared at him. In the background he could hear Barkley yapping nervously and a woman’s voice calling, “Please, dear, try to sound a little more welcoming!”
“Leave your message at the sound of the beep,”
Mr. Murdock snarled, ignoring his dog and wife as if neither existed.
The beep was so long in coming that it was obvious that the Murdocks had a lot of messages on their machine. Bruce wondered if they had stopped answering the phone because of an overload of calls from members of Concerned Citizens for Clean Neighborhoods.
When the beep did finally come, he said, “I’m Bruce Walker, the photographer who took the picture of you and Barkley. If you ever call us again, please ask to speak to me, not to my little sister. We’ve discussed the situation with our legal advisor, and she says there’s nothing you can sue us for.” He paused, uncertain about how to end the one-sided conversation. He didn’t like to be rude and just hang up, but he didn’t want to make idle chitchat either. He compromised by saying, “Have a nice day.”
Despite the barrage of sales for the issue about Barkley, sales for the following issue were disappointing. Even regular customers weren’t eager to purchase the newspaper, because they had now subscribed to
Dogs’ Home Journal,
a new publication on Connor and Jerry’s subscription list.
“Half of their money goes to charity,” people told the children, although when asked which charity it was, they didn’t seem certain.
“What a horrid thing for those boys to do!” Andi cried angrily. “We were here first! Jerry and Connor are copycats!”
“That’s how business works,” Tim said. “They saw we were on to something good and jumped on the bandwagon. There’s nothing illegal about that, though it is sort of crummy. And it sure is messing up our sales.”
“I’m sure Jerry’s the one behind it,” Bruce said. “I bet Connor doesn’t even know about it. He’s probably gotten so busy with all his volunteer work that he’s let Jerry take over the business. That must be what Mr. Gordon meant when he told me Connor’s no longer selling magazines.”
He phoned Aunt Alice to ask what she knew about
Dogs’ Home Journal.
“Nothing specific,” she said. “Just that it sounded like a nice magazine when Jerry described it. He came by a few days ago with a new subscription list. I told him I have all the reading matter I can keep up with, or I
will
have as soon I start getting
Happy Housekeeping.
It’s certainly
taking a long time for that subscription to be activated.”
Bruce typed the title
Dogs’ Home Journal
into an Internet search engine and didn’t come up with any matches. However, the word “dogs” took him to dozens of message boards for people who liked to chat about their pets. One of them wanted to know how to make her own flea powder. Bruce helpfully posted an excerpt from Andi’s article and added the fact that it came from
The Bow-Wow News.
Somebody else then asked, “Is that newspaper online?” and Bruce responded, “Not yet.” Then, before he hit the
SEND
button, he impulsively added, “Watch this board for further developments.”
When he described the exchange to Tim, his friend’s freckled face lit up like a Christmas tree.
“What a great idea!” he exclaimed. “We can build a Web site! My dad has one for his business, and I’m sure he’ll let us use his domain name and Internet provider.”
The girls were not so enthusiastic.
“Aunt Alice suggested we put our paper online,” Andi said. “But I don’t understand what good it will do us if everyone reads it for free.”
“I don’t either,” said Debbie. Today she was dressed in her second disguise, the one she wore on the days she went out with MacTavish. This outfit consisted of black jeans and an oversize black T-shirt. With dark glasses, and her curls tucked up under a baseball cap, it was almost impossible to tell if she was a girl or a boy. “If the paper is on the Internet, why would people buy it?”
“We won’t put the whole paper on the site,” Bruce said. “We’ll post the first half of the articles and tell people that if they want to read the rest they’ll have to send us fifty cents.”
“It would cost that much for the envelope and stamp,” Andi objected.
“The people who contact us will have computers,” Tim said. “We can send them the rest of the paper as e-mail attachments and it won’t cost us anything.”
It took Tim most of a week to construct the Web site, and his father had to help quite a lot.
“It was harder than I thought, but Dad was terrific,” Tim said. “With so many kids in our family, he and I don’t get to do much together, just the two of us, so this was great. Andi, Dad says to tell you
that he loved your last poem — the one about the dog who went swimming and got hit by a torpedo.”
“He did?” Andi exclaimed with delight. That poem was one of her favorites. “Is the Web site finished? When can we start posting articles?”
“It’s ready to roll,” Tim told them. “Let’s start with our most popular story.”
“That’s Bully!” they all said together. “Either that or Barkley.”
“Let’s make it Bully,” Tim said. “Mr. Murdock needs time to simmer down. Bruce, can you make the picture fill the whole screen?”
“Sure,” Bruce said. “And I can do stuff with photo enhancement. For instance, I can make the meat loaf stand up higher on the plate so people can see it better. And I can make Bully’s drool reflect the flowers on the table.” His heart was beating fast with the thrill of this new challenge.
The first online edition of
The Bow-Wow News
received more attention than they could have imagined, especially after Bruce posted information about the Web site on all the dog-lover message boards.
The enhanced photo of Bully with his heaping plate of food and stream of rainbow saliva delighted the Bernsteins.
“But why did you leave out the recipe?” Mrs. Bernstein asked them. “Everybody I know wants my meat loaf recipe.”
“They can get it,” Andi assured her. “But they’ll have to send us fifty cents. Mrs. Bernstein, this is a
business
!”
Her decision to chop off the story at exactly the point where Mrs. Bernstein was preparing to reveal her recipe turned out to be a stroke of genius. Over two hundred people, including a chef at a restaurant in Atlanta, sent e-mail requests for an address where they could send their money. After a bit of discussion, Debbie agreed to have the payments sent to her house. Since both her parents worked, she could intercept the mail before they got home. As proud as they were of their success, Bruce and Andi were concerned that a sudden flood of envelopes addressed to
The Bow-Wow News
might be disconcerting to their parents, who still hadn’t broken the news about their upcoming trip.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that they haven’t told us yet?” Andi asked Bruce. “How long do you think they’re going to wait?”
“As long as they can,” Bruce said. “They’re probably afraid you’ll throw a fit about having to stay with Aunt Alice, so they’re putting off telling us for as long as possible.”
“I’m not going to do that,” Andi said. “I feel differently about Aunt Alice now that she’s our legal advisor.”
Actually, her change in attitude went deeper than that, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. Sometimes in the afternoons when she wasn’t working on the paper she walked down the street to Aunt Alice’s house to visit with her for twenty minutes or so. Twenty minutes was pretty much all she could handle, because Aunt Alice wasn’t the same when she blathered away in her usual manner as when she spoke as “a professional.” But now that Andi knew that another Aunt Alice was buried somewhere inside there, a fascinating core of — she wasn’t sure what to call it, but something exciting and tough and strange, concealed underneath the wrinkles and soft sagging arms and dimpled cheeks — she wanted to be there
when it reemerged. It was like having had a tiny glimpse of a magical image that dissolved into nothing, and sometimes you wondered if you’d ever really seen it.
But it
hadn’t
dissolved. She was sure it was in there somewhere. And that certainty was what made her say to Bruce, “I’m actually looking forward to staying with Aunt Alice.”
As they waited eagerly for the envelopes to start arriving, Tim’s e-mail in-box was overflowing. One message was particularly interesting because it involved the recipe for Bully’s favorite meat loaf.
A veterinarian in Ohio wrote, “If this meat loaf for dogs includes people-food, it might be dangerous for dogs who are allergic to such ingredients.”
A man who owned a company that prided itself on manufacturing “the purest canned dog food in the world” suggested that they substitute his product for any un-doggly ingredients in Mrs. Bernstein’s recipe.
“Concoctions that contain cereal products, onions, and tomato paste might upset a dog’s digestive track,” he wrote.
“I’ve been wondering about that,” Bruce said to Andi when he read that e-mail. “Back when you were tossing bread crusts to Bebe and Friday, I told you I didn’t think that was a good idea. I’ve read that dogs shouldn’t be given people-food. We sure don’t want to do anything to make dogs sick.”
“That dog food guy offered to pay us to revise the recipe,” Tim said. “Why don’t we take out some of the people-food ingredients and replace them with his dog food?”
“That won’t be a problem,” Andi said. “I’ll just make a few substitutions in the e-mail attachment. We won’t have to change the Web site. We’ll just send the recipe to people who ask for it, and we’ll call it ‘Bully’s Extra-Healthy Meat Loaf with No Bad Things in It.’”
The first of the envelopes started arriving on Monday. Debbie waited for the letter carrier out by the mailbox with a coaster wagon so she could haul the envelopes into the house and hide them in the back of her closet. That night Andi came over, and they spent the evening in Debbie’s bedroom, rolling the coins into paper sleeves to take to the
bank. That took so long that Andi was forced to call home and ask permission to sleep over.
The mail load during the next two days was even heavier, and Bruce and Tim had to help with the coin rolling.
“If this is what it’s like to work at a bank, it’s no wonder Mr. Murdock’s always in such a bad mood,” Bruce grumbled.
Then the deluge began to lessen and, by the weekend, had subsided quite a bit. Even so, a couple dozen envelopes arrived on Saturday when Debbie’s parents were home from work. They were understandably curious about the fact that their daughter was receiving more mail than they were, but when Debbie opened the envelopes at the breakfast table and they saw two quarters tumble out, they were more amused than perturbed.
“So your little business is a success!” Debbie’s father said with a smile. “Congratulations, honey! It’s nice that you and your friends are earning spending money in such a creative way.”
Debbie nodded. That day’s income equaled about twelve dollars. But her parents had no idea about the other envelopes that had been pouring in all week or about the many businesspeople who were
purchasing space for ads for collars, leashes, sunglasses, earmuffs, mouthwash, and hand-knit sweaters for dogs.
By now there was more than enough in Bruce’s bank account to cover the cost of Red Rover, and on Sunday afternoon he walked down the block to the Gordons’ house to deliver his final payment.
Mr. Gordon regarded him with astonishment.
“Where did all this come from?” he asked, staring, dumbfounded, at the large pile of bills that Bruce had placed in his hand.
“Like I told you, I work for a newspaper,” Bruce reminded him. “My sister and I and two of our friends are publishing it. Remember when I delivered a copy for Connor?”
“I do recall that, but I didn’t realize —” Mr. Gordon seemed unable to find the words to complete his sentence. He kept staring at the money in amazement. “This is truly phenomenal. I’ll go get Red Rover’s papers for you. Those are important, as Red has an excellent pedigree. In the morning I’ll have my secretary type up a bill of sale. I have to admit that I didn’t really think you could do this. As I said, I’m extremely impressed. You’re quite an entrepreneur!”
As soon as Mr. Gordon left the room, Jerry slid in through the half-open door to the patio. He apparently had been standing there listening to the entire conversation, and he looked like he’d just finished eating something that tasted bad.
“You can’t have earned that much money selling newspapers,” he said. “Connor and I haven’t made that much with our subscriptions, and we’ve sold a lot of them.”
“But, of course, you’re donating half of what you make to charity,” Bruce said. “By the way, what charity is it?”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Jerry snapped. “I read Connor’s copy of that paper, and it’s junk. No one would want to pay to read your sister’s dumb poems or that stupid gossip column. How are you making all that money? You must be doing something shady, and I’m going to find out what it is.”
“Be my guest,” Bruce said. “All we’ve done is publish a newspaper. Ever since we posted it on the Internet, we’ve been getting richer every day. People all over the country want to run ads. Now that I’ve paid for Red Rover, our bank account still has a
balance of two hundred and seventy-six dollars. We’re saving up now to buy cars.”
Jerry opened his mouth to respond, but before he could do so, Mr. Gordon returned to the room with Red Rover’s papers in his hand. He handed them over to Bruce with an expression of respect.
“I’m glad that you and Jerry have been chatting,” he said. “You boys live right here on the same block, and it’s a shame you’re not better acquainted. Jerry, did you know that Bruce and his sister are publishing a newspaper? Maybe you’d like to apply for a job as a reporter.”
“Bruce and I were just talking about his paper,” Jerry said, gracing his father with one of his sweet smiles. “They have a pretty big staff already, but who knows? There may come a time when I can give them something they’re looking for. If so, I’ll be sure to let them know.”
Bruce left the house with the feeling that something had slipped past him — that Jerry was referring to something that might be important — but he wasn’t going to let himself worry about it. With Red’s papers clutched in his hand, he broke into a run, charging through the gate into their backyard,
where Red Rover was sitting dejectedly by his doghouse. As soon as he saw his master, he began to wag his tail, and his big brown eyes grew hopeful as he glanced toward the gate.
“You’re not going to be cooped up here much longer,” Bruce told him, throwing his arms around Red’s neck and rubbing his cheek affectionately against the dog’s silky head. “Tomorrow I get a bill of sale, and you’re officially mine. Then we can go for runs all over the neighborhood.”
When he broke the news to his parents, they regarded him with the same astonishment as Mr. Gordon.
“So, now do I get to take Red running?” Bruce asked his father.
“Oh, son, I don’t know,” Mr. Walker said, looking uncomfortable. “This situation really troubles me. That dog is so large and hard to control —”
“But, Dad, you
promised
!” Bruce cried. “You told me that when Red was legally mine I’d be able to take him running. Mom, you were there when he said it. You remember that, don’t you?”
“You did tell him that,” Mrs. Walker said to her husband. But she, too, looked distressed, as if she wished the promise hadn’t been made.
“I acknowledge that promise,” said Mr. Walker. “I meant it when I made it. But I never expected Bruce to buy the dog so quickly. I thought, by the time he managed to save up that much money, he’d have gone through a growth spurt. Red is a lot of dog for a boy his size to handle, especially if he decides to dash into the street again.”
“He won’t do that unless Jerry rams him,” Bruce said. “And Jerry’s not going to do that — not with his cousin, Connor, keeping a watch on him.”
“Well, I’d like to be here to keep a watch on things, too,” said Mr. Walker. “There’s a problem I didn’t anticipate when I made that promise. Your mother and I are going to be gone for three weeks. We’re going to Europe to celebrate our fifteenth anniversary. We’ve been postponing telling you and Andi, because we knew that you wouldn’t be happy about staying with Aunt Alice.”
“We won’t mind that at all,” Bruce said. “I know you’ll love Europe. Andi and I will be happy to stay with Aunt Alice.”
If his parents had appeared startled when he’d told them he’d paid for Red Rover, that was nothing compared to the surprise on their faces now.
“Do you really mean that?” his mother asked
incredulously. “I’ve been so concerned! I’ve always dreamed of visiting Europe, and when your father surprised me with the tickets, I was so excited and happy I almost fainted. But I hated the thought of you children back here, miserable, and I’m worried about being out of reach in an emergency.”
“There won’t be an emergency,” Bruce assured her. “And, if there is, Aunt Alice will know how to handle it. After all, she used to be a detective.”
“That was a long time ago,” his father said. “Aunt Alice is old now, and elderly people don’t cope well with stressful situations. Your mother and I feel confident that Alice can deal with the ups and downs of everyday life, but we don’t want her faced with a calamity. I want you to get a book about how to train dogs and teach Red to obey your commands. And I’m asking you to postpone taking him out of the yard until we’re back from our trip. Then, if something goes wrong, we’ll be here to help deal with it. Does that sound like a reasonable compromise?”
Bruce had to struggle to keep from showing his disappointment. He felt sure he could manage Red Rover without any difficulty, but he didn’t want to ruin his parents’ vacation by having them worry about him the whole time they were gone.
“Okay,” he said. “I promise to wait till you get back.”
The following evening he walked down to the Gordons’ to collect the bill of sale. Mr. Gordon had it ready and complimented him again on his business initiative.
“It’s wonderful to see young people so motivated,” he said.
When Bruce left to go home, he found Connor in the Gordons’ driveway, preparing to wax his car.
“Hi, dude, what’s up?” Connor asked in his friendly manner. “Word has it you’ve got yourself a dog.”
“Sure do!” Bruce said. “Now I’m going to start saving for a car. But I’ll never be able to afford a set of wheels like yours. Someday, when you’re not busy, would you take me for a ride?”
“I’d be glad to,” Connor said, “but there isn’t much time when I’m not busy, what with so much volunteer work and the job selling magazines.”
“But I thought …” Bruce let the sentence trail off. Every time he talked to the Gordons he got more and more confused. It was as if their family never communicated and no one had any idea what the others were doing.
“What’s with this
Dogs’ Home Journal
?” he now asked Connor. “I can’t seem to find it on the Internet.”
“It’s so new, the search engines haven’t picked it up yet,” Connor said. “And I have you to thank for finding it. I hadn’t realized how popular dogs were in Elmwood. I figured you wouldn’t mind if we added it to our subscription list. Business is business, and people who read a dog newspaper will read a dog magazine. Now that you’re selling off the Internet, we’re not in competition. No hard feelings, right, pal?”
He smiled his wonderful smile, and Bruce smiled back at him.
“No hard feelings,” he said. “Like you say, it’s all business.”
Despite his resemblance to Jerry, it was impossible not to like Connor.