The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I dislike dogs or am scared of them or think the world would be a better place without them. It's just that I'm not the type of person who melts when she sees a basset hound or wants to rush over and hug any Lab she happens to cross paths with. When I see a dog, I usually don't give it a second glance.

And yet here I am, a certified nonâdog lover, talking to a drooling Saint Bernard and scratching him
behind his ear even though I'd much rather be inside, gulping down a can of cold grape soda. Especially after the steaming hot walk I just had coming home from school.

The dog's name is Killer. That is what my daddy decided he should be called. But he's lived with us for seven months now, and there's not a microscopic bit of meanness to be found in any of the big bones under his shaggy brown and white fur coat.

Daddy's second choice for a name wasn't any better for him: Cujo. Like the crazy dog that ripped people apart in that old movie.

A good name for him would have been something like Sweetie Pie. But I can't call him that because after all he is a boy, and he might take offense.

So I call him Beauregard.

“You like the name Beauregard, don't ya?” I ask.

His tail thumps dirt, kicking up dust as a response.

“Everyone should like their name. I like mine okay. Charlotte Hayes. Could be worse, I guess.”

More tail thumping.

Having the name Killer is the least of this dog's problems, though. Unfortunately all
his
problems have somehow become my problems. I just wish I knew what to do about it.

Beauregard collapses to the ground, legs straight up, giant paws dangling in the air.

He's asking for a belly rub.

The white of his belly is covered with brown. He's been lying in dirt where the grass has been worn away. I really don't want a coating of dirt on my hands.

He stares up at me, pleading from his upside-down position. I look away and notice his water bowl is empty. It's been in the upper eighties today, and Beauregard has to be terribly thirsty, so I ignore his plea for a belly rub and pick up the empty bowl instead. I march over to the outside spigot and fill it to the brim. Sploshing water until my sneakers squish, I carry the bowl back and set it down. Beauregard jumps up and makes a nosedive into it, lapping water like crazy.

Even though it's technically the first week of fall, it feels more like the middle of summer here in Greater Oaks, West Virginia. I put my hands on top of my
head, hoping to catch a faint breeze. My orange hair feels like an electric stovetop burner twisted all the way to high.

Beauregard pauses from his frantic drinking long enough to drool and give me a melancholy stare. Saint Bernards always look a bit sad with their droopy eyes and saggy mouths, but I know he'd at least look a little happier if I could bring him inside with me. He's been an outside dog since we've had him, but for the past four months he hasn't even had a moment's break from his chain.

Beauregard, finished with his water, rolls onto his back once more and lets out a whimper. I was hoping he'd forget about that belly rub. He whimpers again and sounds so pitiful that I go ahead and kneel beside him and begin stroking his dirty fur. I swish a few gnats away with my free hand.

“Life's not fair, is it, boy?” I ask.

He groans and flops from his back to his side and begins panting.

Life's not fair for Beauregard. It's not fair for me either. 'Cause I'm the one stuck taking care of him.

Chapter 2

“W
hat's the use of getting a dog if it can't be inside with us?” I ask at dinner. I figure if Beauregard were inside with us, maybe taking care of him and spending time with him wouldn't seem like so much of a chore for me.

“That dog drools.” Mama passes a bowl of mashed potatoes to my older sister, Agnes, and doesn't even bother looking at me. Instead she focuses her attention on cutting up her pork chop. “Can't have drool all over the house.”

“Justin Lee drools,” I say, pointing at my baby brother, who is sitting in his high chair, rubbing mashed potatoes into his tray. He makes a fist, smashing some into his mouth.

“It's different and you know it, Charlotte. Besides, Justin Lee won't always have a drool problem. He'll outgrow it. Killer won't,” Mama says.

“Then why did we get a dog that drools? Lots of dogs don't drool, you know.” I frown, cross my arms, and lean back in my chair until it's tipped on two rear legs.

“Don't ask me; ask your father. I wasn't the one that brought him home.” Mama takes a moment to frown at Daddy, then gives me the eye. “And stop tipping your chair. You'll fall.”

I know what her look means. It means, Shut up, Charlotte. Since Justin Lee was born, she only directs her attention at me when she wants me to be quiet and leave her alone.

Agnes elbows me hard and glares.

A few weeks ago Agnes told me a secret. She had listened in on a phone conversation between Daddy and Aunt Renee and found out Mama has something called postpartum depression. I'm supposed to pretend I don't know, though. Agnes overheard Daddy telling Aunt Renee he didn't want to worry the two of us kids about it.

Basically postpartum depression means Mama is almost always in a bad mood. Agnes told me not to make it any worse by pestering her. She said I need to take it easy on Mama, so she can get better. She's reminding me of that right now with her glare.

Mama's bad mood isn't helped by the fact that Justin Lee keeps her up practically all night long. Me and Agnes were good babies, Mama's said on more than one occasion. Slept through the night by the time we were four weeks old. But Justin Lee is another story. Still getting her up three, four times a night, even though he's nine months old.

I can't help noticing the dark circles under Mama's eyes, and suddenly I feel guilty for bothering her about Beauregard. Like Agnes, I'm worried about her too. She's somehow different from the mama I once knew. Before Justin Lee, Mama was full of spunk, always busy. Every morning she would throw on a pair of sweats and go running. She was a cross-country star back in high school and had kept up with it ever since. Now her running shoes just stay in the closet, gathering dust.

But Daddy doesn't look tired or depressed. And Mama did just tell me to ask him after all, so I do. “Daddy, why'd you get a dog that drools if it means he can't be kept in the house?”

“I've always liked the way Saint Bernards look. Drool or not, Killer's a beautiful dog,” Daddy says. He quickly tries to change the subject away from drool and the house issue. “Did you know in Switzerland Saint Bernards have a history of rescuing people on snow-covered mountains? And they were bred by monks?”

I don't really care about their history. Getting a dog because of the way it looks, then totally ignoring it makes no sense to me. I mutter something to that effect, loud enough for Daddy to hear, and stare at my plate while pushing peas around with my fork.

“Honey, Killer's not ignored,” Daddy says. “You're out there every day with him.”

“That's because no one else bothers even so much as to fill his water bowl when it's empty.” I stop pushing peas around and make a design in my mashed potatoes with my fork prongs.

“Taking on a few chores like that won't hurt you any,” Daddy says gently.

“Butâ,”

Mama cuts me off. “Stop playing with your food now and eat, Charlotte.” She rubs at her forehead like she has a headache.

Agnes kicks me under the table, and I catch a glimpse of Daddy looking at Mama. His eyes seem kind of sad and concerned, so I let out a sigh instead of arguing more.

Daddy goes to the kitchen sink and fills up his glass with water. He squints out the kitchen window and says, “There's my dog. Oh, he's a handsome one all right. Glad I didn't get one of those tiny hairless Chihuahuas, the ones with all the warts. They're sort of on the ugly side. Might have ruined my view.”

When he sits back down at the table, his face is all red, like he's mighty angry, but he's smiling, so I know he is just trying hard to lighten the mood by being funny.

Daddy's face is always red, so it's hard to read him if you don't know him. He's a big guy, too. Fills an
entire doorway. My friend Luanne calls him intimidating. She won't even make a peep when she comes over and he's around. But I've never been scared of him. Daddy's never given me anything to be scared about. He doesn't hit or yell. He just makes jokes.

Daddy takes a swig of water and reaches over to tousle my hair. “Charlotte, no need to worry about Killer. He's an outdoor dog. Nothing wrong with that. I love him, and he's got a good home here with us.”

I want to blurt out, “You
used
to love him, and he
used
to have a good home,” but I keep my mouth glued, not wanting to cause trouble. If I get on Mama's bad side again, I'll probably have to do dishes not only my week but Agnes's too.

What's funny is that Daddy was so proud of Beauregard when he first brought him home. Goodness, he was little then, just a couple of months old, and Daddy could still hold him in his thick arms. “Got him for a steal,” he said.

A coworker of Daddy's originally bought the pup for five hundred dollars. Daddy said the man's wife threw such a fit over the purchase that she made him spend
the night on the couch for an entire week. So the man decided to get rid of his newly acquired pet.

Now Daddy is the type always looking for a good deal, won't buy anything unless it's a bargain. His coworker offered the puppy for only two hundred dollars. Of course Daddy couldn't resist.

I thought Mama was going to make Daddy sleep on the couch, too, when he came home with Beauregard. She was whoppin' mad. Justin Lee was only two months old at the time, and Mama had said the last thing our house needed was another addition. “Those paws are already huge,” she said, holding a squalling Justin Lee while Daddy cradled Beauregard like he was a human infant, too. “That's a Saint Bernard pup. He'll be two hundred pounds before you know it! Lord, what were you thinking!”

Daddy gave a look of mock surprise. “A Saint Bernard? Why, I thought this was one of them fancy shih tzus! A little dust mop you wouldn't even notice.”

“Sheit-zu my foot,” Mama said, swaying back and forth, trying to calm down Justin Lee. But she was
doing it more in a mad way than a soothing one, and my brother just wailed louder. “And don't you dare expect me to take care of it!”

Daddy laughed at the words
shih tzu
and what Mama made it sound like. “I'll take good care of him. Don't worry your pretty little self about it,” he said.

I have to say, for the first few weeks Daddy kept his word about taking care of Beauregard. He was always making over that dog. He built him a doghouse and painted it blue, just like our own house. It looked even nicer than our house, actually, since ours was faded and long overdue for a paint job. And Daddy could often be found outside with him, hugging him and whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Sometimes, when running errands, he'd take Beauregard with him. Beauregard always bounded into the car happily, like he was about to go on some grand adventure.

Agnes was pretty good to Beauregard, too, for a while. She'd take him off his chain and play with him, jumping around and getting him all wound up. He'd be barking and hopping like a giant rabbit,
the motion making the loose skin around his mouth bounce up, and it almost looked like he was smiling. Then Beauregard got bigger and droolier, and Agnes started changing, too. She turned fourteen and got her first boyfriend. Daddy also moved on to the next thing that caught his fancy, a rusty, dented old Volkswagen Bug he had inherited from a great-uncle. He had big plans to restore it but only got as far as taking the engine half apart and painting the doors. It's been sitting unassembled in our garage since.

And me, well, as I said, I am not a dog person, so I was more than content to stand back and watch Daddy and Agnes with our growing puppy. Still, I couldn't help feeling sorry for him after they stopped spending time with him. And the last straw came when his food and water bowls began to be left empty. So I took over where they left off. I'm the one who feeds him, waters him, pets him, and scoops up the poop when piles start to take over. I can't say I enjoy it. But it's better than having to watch the poor dog suffer.

I chew at a piece of pork chop. I'm tempted to
keep on complaining about Beauregard's situation, telling them how he'd be much happier inside, even if it meant I'd be doing dishes Agnes's week. But then Daddy starts singing a silly made-up song about a hairless Chihuahua with warts that falls in love with a Saint Bernard. And soon Justin Lee is happily cooing along and Agnes has stopped glaring and Mama looks like maybe she might actually smile for once and I haven't seen her smile in such a long time.

So I don't have the heart to spoil the moment. Besides, complaining isn't going to accomplish anything. I tried complaining about the empty food and water bowls when I first noticed them to Daddy. He'd always say, “I'll get to it.” But he never did. I need to think of a real plan.

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