The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (13 page)

T
he following day is Friday, and after school Luanne, Grace, and I walk to Petunia's. She recovered well enough to come back home in March, although Rhonda, Barth, and Amber Rose moved in with her because she needed extra care. Rhonda said it was an adjustment at first for them all but that Petunia truly enjoys the baby and that it all seems to have worked out.

When we reach the house, the three of us stand in front for a moment, gaping with admiration at the new paint job we see. Last week Rhonda took the snapshot of Petunia's father after he had finished
painting the house to a paint store. The shop used the photo to mix up some new paint to match. So now the house looks just as cheerful and happy on the outside as it does on the inside.

We finally go up to the porch to ring the doorbell and after a few moments see Petunia's face as the door opens.

“The house looks great!” Luanne says.

“Oh, thanks,” Petunia says. “I was so afraid they wouldn't get the color right. But it ended up being just perfect. My father would approve, I'm sure.” Petunia showers us with her half grin, and it conveys just as much joy as any full grin would have.

Rhonda is at the beauty shop, Barth is at work, and Amber Rose is at her grandma's house, so it's just the four of us. On the way to the kitchen table I walk by my gift to Petunia. My work of art is hanging on a wall in the parlor. It looks grand, if I do say so myself. I'm hoping the new painting I started last night of Beauregard and his new family will turn out just as good.

We get settled at the kitchen table. As Grace deals
the cards, I open my backpack and take out the letter and picture of Beauregard's new family. I brought them along to share with everyone since they all played a part in his newfound happiness.

“The girls look really nice,” Grace says.

“And the parents, too!” says Luanne.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Petunia says after she is done reading the letter and looking at the picture. “Beauregard is positively glowing. What an amazing thing to have happened to him and that family. A happy ending. That's what we all want, isn't it?”

I nod, unable to speak because I start to get all choked up again. I feel hot and red-faced. Just when I think I'm about to burst out bawling, Luanne says, “Charlotte, I just passed. You need to decide which suit to call trump.”

I study my hand. I have an ace of hearts, a queen of hearts, and a jack of diamonds. “Hearts,” I say, relieved at having successfully shoved the teary feeling away.

I'm not sad, and everything is fine and dandy, so why on earth do I keep on feeling like I need to cry?

 

After Petunia's, we walk to the shelter over on Fenton Street. I want to thank Kathleen for bringing over the letter from Beauregard's new family and for all her help.

When we troop through the door, Kathleen looks up from the front desk and greets us with a “Hey, girls!” She stands up. “Did you get the letter?” she asks me.

“Yes. Thanks. I feel so much better now, knowing where he is.”

“Couldn't ask for him to have a better home,” Kathleen says.

“I really appreciate what you did, making the arrangements with the rescue group and everything. I bet Beauregard appreciates it, too.”

“Well, that's what we're here for. You all want to visit some of the dogs we have?” she asks. “They'd love the attention if you have some time to spare.” Without waiting for an answer, she starts walking. We follow her back to the dog adoption room. Five dogs welcome us with their tails wagging.

“You know, I was thinking of trying to start a volunteer program for kids to come for a couple of hours a week to walk the dogs. Maybe brush them or bathe them and spend time with them, too. Would you three be interested? As long as your parents give permission, of course.”

Luanne and Grace give an enthusiastic “yes!”

I don't say anything. One of the dogs reminds me a bit of Beauregard. Large, boxy head, a bit of drool hanging out of his mouth, but with a smooth solid reddish coat. A mixed breed of some sort. He looks at me with deep brown eyes and whimpers. I flash back to when I last saw Beauregard, right here at the shelter, and I suddenly wish with all my heart I had hugged him after all. I feel my throat tighten up.

“Sure, I'll volunteer,” I tell Kathleen, my voice kind of high and squeaky-sounding.

Oh, why did I just say that? After all I went through to get rid of Beauregard, and here I'll be doing dog chores again. Am I crazy?

I blink away a few tears and stick my hand through the cage to pet the dog. And, like a ton of bricks,
it hits me why I've been so emotional lately. I miss Beauregard. A bunch.

Maybe I
am
a dog person?

Even though I wasn't exactly born one, I happen to feel like one now.

“What's his name?” I ask Kathleen.

“The people who turned him in called him Fang.”

I lean in and whisper to him, “We'll have to do something about that name of yours.”

He thumps his tail. I find myself wondering if I bring some gingersnaps with me when I come back, how long it will take me to teach this dog to shake hands.

I guess I might as well admit this straight up.

I can hardly wait to find out.