Patches

PATCHES

ELLEN MILES

NEW YORK  TORONTO  LONDON  AUCLAND
SYDNEY  MEXICO CITY  NEW DELHI  HONG KONG

For David, Deb, Margaret,
and Sophie, in memory of Lucy.

“Bored, bored, bored out of my gourd. Bored, bored, bored out of my gourd . . .” Sammy sang as he bounced a tennis ball against the wall of the garage.

Charles was bored, too. It was a hot Saturday in May, and he and his best friend had nothing to do.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There was always
something
to do, if you asked Charles’s mom. “Help me clean out the basement,” she’d suggest. Or, “Offer to weed Mrs. Schneider’s garden.” Or, “Take Buddy on a long walk.”

The first idea was out of the question. Charles figured that ninety-nine percent of the stuff in the basement had been stored there since long before he was born, so he wasn’t responsible for it.

As for Mrs. Schneider’s weeds, he and Sammy had pulled plenty of them last weekend to make up for the living room window they’d broken. Not on purpose, of course. How could they help it if the Schneiders’ house was
exactly
where left field would be if there were a left field in their imaginary baseball diamond? Anyway, it had almost been worth it. That inside-the-park home run was the best hit of Charles’s career so far.

And Buddy? He was the adorable puppy that Charles Peterson and his family had adopted. Charles loved Buddy more than anything. He was the perfect puppy. Buddy had big brown eyes, soft, toast-colored fur, floppy ears, and a little white heart on his chest. His breath smelled sweet and his tiny baby teeth were so white (and sharp!). He was always happy and always ready for a game or a snuggle.

Buddy was growing up fast. Sometimes Charles still couldn’t believe that Buddy would belong to him
forever
! The Petersons had been the foster
family for lots of puppies, giving each one a safe place to live while they found it the perfect home. But Buddy was different. Buddy had come to stay.

Buddy got lots and lots of attention from everybody in the family. He’d already been on
two
long walks that day, once with Lizzie, Charles’s older sister, and once with Charles and Dad and the Bean.

Charles’s little brother, the Bean, did have a real name — Adam — but nobody ever called him that. The Bean was a toddler, and the funny thing about him was that he liked to pretend he was a dog. Some people might think that was weird, but the Petersons were used to it. And it was easiest just to play along.

So that morning, when Charles had gotten out Buddy’s red leash, the Bean brought over his green leash, too. He sat up straight and eager while Charles clipped it onto a little green harness Mom had made for him. You could practically imagine the Bean’s tail wagging. Dad took hold of
the Bean’s leash while Charles held Buddy’s, and they walked all the way down to the playground and back. The Bean hardly barked at all, so Charles and Dad gave him a cookie when they got home. Buddy got a dog biscuit.

Now Buddy and the Bean were both inside, taking a nap together on Buddy’s red-plaid dog bed. That was the Bean’s favorite place to sleep, curled up with Buddy and a stuffed dog toy.

“We could walk Buddy again, I guess,” Charles said to Sammy. He knew the puppy was always happy to be taken out. For Buddy, every walk was an adventure.

“Goldie and Rufus would probably like another walk, too.” Sammy and his parents lived next door with two golden retrievers, an older one, Rufus, and a puppy, Goldie. Goldie was the first puppy the Petersons ever fostered. “Only . . .”

“Only — what?” Charles was suspicious. He had noticed that Sammy had a certain gleam in
his eye, the one that meant he had a capital P Plan. And Sammy’s Plans often led to trouble.

“Only . . . the dogs might get scared if we go where I think we should go.”

Now Charles was curious. “Where’s that?”

“To the haunted house.” Sammy let the ball bounce away down the driveway. Then he told Charles a story he had heard from an older boy at school. “Harry Bremer says there’s a ghost in this house near his, over by the cemetery. He says he hears it moaning all the time. Nighttime, daytime, it doesn’t matter. That ghost is always wailing.”

“Has — has he seen it?” Charles did not like to admit that he was afraid of ghosts.

“Not yet. Nobody has. So we’ll be the first!”

Suddenly, helping Mom clean out the basement was sounding a lot more interesting. But Charles knew how Sammy was. When he came up with a Plan, he just
had
to follow through. And he expected company.

Half an hour later, Sammy and Charles rode their bikes around a corner near the cemetery and stopped short. It was obvious which house was haunted. It had to be the enormous, rambling gray mansion that looked like it belonged in a scary movie.

Charles could tell right away that nobody had lived in that house for a long, long time. Its windows and doors were cockeyed. Twining vines with poisonous-looking purple flowers crawled all over the falling-down porch. The yard was full of weeds, most of them taller than Charles. And a rusty bicycle lay near the front steps, like someone tossed it down twenty years ago and never came back to pick it up.

Charles swallowed. His mouth felt dry. “I — I don’t hear any moaning,” he said.

“Me, neither.” Sammy leaned his bike against the fence and pulled open the creaking gate. “Maybe we have to get closer.”

Charles wanted to run in the opposite direction,
but Sammy was already halfway down the front walk. He couldn’t abandon his friend! Charles left his bike next to Sammy’s and tiptoed through the gate.

“Dare you to go up on the porch!” Sammy had stopped near the rusty bicycle.

Charles shook his head. “No, thanks.” He took a closer look at Sammy. Could his friend be scared, too?

But Sammy just shrugged and started up the rotten wooden stairs. Then, mid-step, he froze. “Do you hear what I hear?”

Charles gulped. He nodded. He heard it, all right. And it sent chills down his spine. The low moaning sound seemed to fill the air around him.

“Where’s it
coming
from?” Sammy tilted his head.

“I don’t know, but —” Charles was about to say that it must be just about time to go home for lunch, but Sammy interrupted.

“Come on! Let’s find out.”

Charles had no choice but to follow Sammy up onto the porch. The boys cupped their hands and peered into the windows of the dark, empty, tumbledown house.

“Nothing.” Sammy sounded disappointed. Charles hoped that meant they could leave. But the moaning didn’t stop.

“I think it’s coming from out back,” Sammy said, after he’d listened for a moment. He led the way around the porch. Charles followed, watching where he put his feet so that he didn’t fall through the rotten boards. When Sammy stopped short, Charles almost slammed into him. “Look!” Sammy pointed. “Oh, man!”

Charles could hardly believe his eyes. The sad moaning sound was not coming from any ghost. It was coming from a dog! A puppy, actually. A little brown puppy that was tied up in the garage next door.

Sammy stared at Charles.

Charles stared at Sammy.

There was no ghost. There was just a tiny, cute brown puppy, crying and howling for attention.

Ohhhhh, waahhhhh, I’m sooooooo looooonely! Soooommmebody pleeeeeease plaaaaaaay with meeeeee!

The puppy threw back his head and howled even louder when he saw Charles and Sammy. How could such a big sound come out of such a little puppy?

“I can’t take it!” Sammy put his hands over his ears.

“The poor little guy!” Charles ran right down the porch stairs and into the next-door neighbor’s yard. He cut across the driveway and knelt by the puppy. The tiny dog looked up at him with soft brown eyes. When he held up one little paw, Charles felt his heart melt. What was this cute little guy
doing
out here all by himself?

“Charles! What are you
up
to?” Sammy was still standing on the porch.

“He needs help!” The puppy was tied to a long rope. And the rope was tangled around a bicycle, a lawn mower, and a snowblower. The puppy could barely move! There was a bowl of water by the door, but the puppy couldn’t get to it.

Before Charles untangled the rope, he reached out a hand for the puppy to smell. “You can trust me, little pup,” he said softly. “Okay?”

Lizzie, Charles’s older sister, knew
everything
about dogs. She had taught Charles that it was always smart to be careful around a dog you didn’t know. Especially when the owner wasn’t around to tell you whether it was okay to pat the dog. Most dogs are friendly, but some aren’t. And sometimes even a really nice dog will bite just because it is scared. Charles really wanted to help this dog, but first he had to make sure that it wouldn’t hurt him.

The puppy raised his head to sniff Charles’s hand. His long, floppy ears hung down, giving him a sad, hangdog look. He had a shiny little black nose and a sweet brown-and-white face with black markings. His legs and his round puppy belly were white, and his back was brown and black. He was almost as cute as Buddy had been at that age.

I think I like this boy. Maybe he’ll pat me, if I let him know it’s all right. I sure could use a
pat or two. I could use a hug. I could use a friend.

The puppy licked Charles’s hand, and when Charles gave his head a pat in return, his little white-and-brown tail wagged so that it thumped against the garage wall.

“Aww, look! It’s a beagle puppy!” By now, Sammy had joined Charles in the garage. He patted the puppy, too. “My uncle Jim has beagles. They are super smart. Now that I think of it, they howl like that sometimes just for fun.”

“Something tells me this guy is not howling just for fun.” Charles was busy untangling the rope. “Can you imagine being tied up out here all by yourself?” He pulled the rope free and gave the puppy a pat. “There you go, pal!”

Oh, yaaaaaay! Oh, hoooooray! It feels so good to move around again! I’m going to jump right up on
this boy and lick his face. I’m sure he’ll know that means “thank you!”

The boys laughed when the puppy pranced around howling, then put his paws on Charles’s shoulders and licked his face all over. Then Charles and Sammy watched the puppy run over to his water bowl. After he lapped up every last drop, he sat down and looked at them, tilting his head expectantly as if he wanted more. Water dripped off his droopy ears, which had dangled into the bowl while he was drinking.

Charles picked up the bowl and took it over to a faucet he’d noticed on the outside of the garage. After he filled it with water, he brought the bowl back to its place near a pile of dirty blankets. He guessed that was probably the puppy’s bed. “Hey, look, there’s a little sign here by his bowls. It says, ‘Patches.’ I guess that’s his name.” The sign was scrawled in red crayon.

“Patches!” Sammy tried calling. “Come here, boy!”

The puppy turned and galloped over to Sammy with his mouth wide open, his pink tongue lolling out, and his floppy ears flying. Now that the rope was untangled, he could run all over the garage and even out into the driveway.

Another new friend! Yaaayyy!

Patches howled with joy as he plowed right into Sammy’s arms.

Sammy rolled over, laughing hysterically.

“Here, Patches!” Charles called. The puppy galloped back over and started licking his face. Charles cracked up. That made the puppy lick him even more. “Ha-ha! Stop!” yelled Charles. “You’re tickling me!”

“Shh!”
Sammy looked over at the house. “What if somebody’s home?”

“Nobody’s home,” Charles said. “If they were, they would have heard him crying and let him
in.” He played some more with Patches, scratching him between the ears. Buddy always liked being scratched there. Patches seemed to like it, too.

“I would never tie Buddy up outside like this.” Charles felt so sorry for the lonely little pup. “I think it’s mean. Dogs like to be with people, not left alone all by themselves.”

“Goldie and Rufus would
hate
being tied up,” Sammy agreed.

“It’s not fair. It should be against the law.” Charles thought for a second. “Hey, maybe it
is
against the law!” he said. “Maybe we should tell somebody about this puppy. Somebody who could help him if his owners aren’t treating him right.”

“Like who?” Sammy asked.

“Like Lizzie.”