“Yes,” I said. “No, I have not been at school.”
“That you have played hooky from school these past four days?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” I shouted.
“That you have deceived your aunt and myself and gone traipsing all over the city and talked to all kinds of strangers knowing that we would never have approved.”
“Yes,” I said. “You never would have approved.”
“And you also knew, Izzy,” said my uncle, “that I would have taken you over to see Mrs. Firestone on Saturday. You knew that I planned on helping you in your search. It wasn’t as if I said no.”
I hugged Gus hard against me. My tears were bouncing off his head. “Saturday would have been too late,” I yelled, beginning to hiccup too. “By Saturday he would have been dead.”
My uncle moved a little closer. He looked at me standing there, holding Gus, hiccupping, and crying, and you could see he was disgusted. “You know, Izzy,” he said, “you deceived us. You acted so meek and mild, like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. We thought you were a quiet, obedient child
—maybe even too obedient.”
“Not anymore,” I told him. “I don’t have to be that way anymore because nobody wants me either. And Gus doesn’t have to be that way. Now that he’s got me he can be himself. I know what he’s really like. I remember. He likes to play and jump around and make a lot of noise. That’s what he’s really like and now that I found him, he’ll be like that again. You’ll see. No
—you won’t see because we won’t be here anymore. But don’t try to separate us, Uncle Roger. It won’t work. He’s my dog and I won’t let us be separated ever again.”
“I think
...
,” my aunt murmured, putting a hand on my uncle’s arm.
“You really had us fooled,” said my uncle, “but for the time being, until we decide what would be best
...
”
“I’ve already decided,” I told him. “Nobody will ever take Gus away from me again.”
“I think
...
,” said my Aunt Alice.
My uncle stopped looking at me and began looking at Gus.
“So don’t try!” I yelled. “Just leave Gus alone.”
“But,” said my uncle, “that isn’t Gus.”
Chapter 11
“I remember,” said my uncle. “Just take one look at the picture if you don’t believe me. Gus had floppy ears like a cocker spaniel.”
The little dog nestled in my arms had small, pointy ears like a scotty.
“I don’t know where the picture is,” I told my uncle.
“It’s not Gus,” he insisted. “You have the wrong dog.”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “It’s the right dog. Mrs
.
Firestone said so. And he was afraid of Loretta just like he was when he was a puppy. It’s Gus.”
“It’s not Gus,” said my uncle impatiently. “All you have to do is find that picture. You’ll be able to see very plainly that Gus’s ears were different from the ears of the animal you’re holding.” My uncle’s finger was pointed at my little dog. Guilty, said my uncle’s finger.
“No,” I told him. “It’s Gus.”
My uncle said, angrily, “Then there’s only one way to settle this, once and for all. Take that animal with you and let’s go right now.”
My aunt came too. She sat quietly in the front seat, next to my uncle, while Gus and I clung to each other in the back. All the way over to Mrs. Firestone’s my uncle kept complaining about the important meeting he was missing and about my stubbornness in not facing the facts. I stroked Gus’s head and whispered in each of his pointy ears that it was going to be okay.
“No,” I told my uncle when we arrived. “I’m not taking Gus into her house. We’ll wait here.”
“You have to come,” my uncle insisted. “I want you to hear what she has to say.”
“No,” I repeated. “Loretta scares Gus and I’m not going to bring him in there again.”
“Izzy!” he said.
“No!” I answered.
“Roger,” said my aunt, “I’ll come with you and perhaps we can persuade Mrs. Firestone to come back to the car
— without Loretta.”
It was growing dark but I could see my tall, dignified uncle and my neat, fashionable aunt as they opened the crooked gate to Mrs. Firestone’s yard and made their way through the cans and papers, past the two rusty bikes, the lopsided baby carriage, the child’s pool filled with water, and Eleanor and Franklin who stuck out their necks and made undignified noises. I watched them as they knocked on Mrs. Firestone’s door but I couldn’t hear what they were saying when she opened the door and stood there talking to them. Finally, my uncle put out an arm, held Mrs. Firestone by the elbow, and escorted her over to the car. He opened the back door and said, “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Firestone, would you please take a seat next to my niece?”
“Good evening, Izzy,” said Mrs. Firestone. “Good evening, Gus.”
“He says this isn’t Gus,” I whispered. “He wants you to say it isn’t Gus.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Firestone, “This certainly is Gus.”
My uncle and aunt took their seats in the front of the car, and my uncle cleared his throat.
“I’m very sorry to bother you this way, Mrs. Firestone, but I believe you are the only one who can convince my niece that she has the wrong dog.”
“His name is Gus,” said Mrs. Firestone.
“There,” I said to my uncle. “She said it was Gus. You heard her say it was Gus.”
“Yes,” said my uncle. “I certainly did. Mrs. Firestone, let me just ask you a few questions.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Firestone.
“Did 1 or did I not bring you a small black dog about seven years ago?”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Firestone. “I remember it very well.”
“What was the dog’s name please?”
“Gus,” replied Mrs. Firestone.
“Now, would you please,” said my uncle, the lawyer, “tell my niece what happened to that dog.”
“Well,” said the witness, “my cat, Loretta, scared him so I had to give him to the S.P.C.A. I didn’t want to but
...
”
“I told you all of this already,” I interrupted. “Why are you acting like Gus is on trial? Mrs. Firestone just told you that her cat scared Gus and that she gave him to the S.P.C.A. You heard what she said. And this was that dog, wasn’t it, Mrs. Firestone?”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Firestone. “Of course he was a little younger then.”
“Yes,” said my uncle, “and his ears were different then too, weren’t they?”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Firestone, laughing. “His ears were the same. A dog’s ears don’t change over the years.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said my uncle, “but the dog I brought you had ears like a cocker spaniel and this dog has pointy ears.”
Mrs. Firestone remained silent.
“Do you remember, Mrs. Firestone, that the dog I brought you had long, floppy ears and his name was Gus?”
Mrs. Firestone wrinkled up her forehead. Then she looked down at the dog in my lap and gently put a finger on one of his ears. “Oh!” she said, shaking her head, “that dog!”
“Now, Mrs. Firestone,” said my uncle, “will you kindly tell us what happened to that dog, to the dog named Gus?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Firestone, looking at me sadly. “I’m sorry, Izzy, I don’t know. He ran away the next day. The gate was open and he must have gotten out. He was such a cute little dog and he and Loretta got along just fine. But he must have gotten out and I guess somebody found him
—such a cute, lively little dog. Anybody would
want a dog like that. I’m sorry, Izzy, I forgot all about him
—all about that dog.”
“Now, then,” said the prosecutor, “would you tell us about this dog?”
“Izzy,” Mrs. Firestone said, “somebody else gave him to me about the same time. Now who was it gave him to me
—not your uncle, no, not him, but it was a man, another man ... like your uncle. And right around the same time—or nearly around the same time, I’m not exactly sure when. But both of those dogs were black, I’m sure of that, Izzy, and that’s why I mixed them up. I’m sorry, Izzy.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Firestone,” said my uncle.
Mrs. Firestone said to me, “Izzy, you know I can’t give Loretta away. She’s been in the family too long for that but I still think I could have a good heart-to-heart talk with her. She’s older now. She’ll listen to reason.”
“That’s quite all right,” said my uncle. “It won’t be necessary since I’m sure Izzy will agree this is not Gus.”
“No,” I told him, hugging my dog closer to me, “this is Gus. I’ll go anywhere you want to send me but you’re not going to take him away from me.”
Mrs. Firestone put her bony fingers on my arm. “You see, Izzy,” she said, “it’s like this. I’m very old. I don’t even remember how old anymore. But I’m still here and if you don’t have any better place, if nobody will take you
—you and Gus, I mean, you can come and live with me. I don’t generally like children but since you don’t seem to have any other place to go ...”
“But what about Loretta?” I asked her. “I don’t think she likes me any better than she likes Gus.”
“She’s not used to children. It won’t be easy but I’m sure we can work something out.”
“Maybe if Gus and I just stay out of her way most of the time. We’re both quiet and we won’t bother her.”
“Roger!” said my aunt.
I was beaming at Mrs. Firestone and she was nodding her head and beaming at me. I had a place to go. Gus and I. We had a home. “I’ll go back and pack my things. I can come back tonight if my uncle will drive me back. Otherwise, I still have some money. I can take a cab.”
“But Izzy,” my uncle said. “If this isn’t Gus, if this isn’t the dog you were looking for, why do you want to keep him?”
The little black dog was fast asleep now in my arms. “Because he is Gus even if he isn’t that Gus. Maybe that Gus found a family that wanted him but this Gus didn’t. Nobody wants this Gus. Only me.”
“Stubborn,” said my uncle. “Just like your father.”
“No,” I said, “I’m not like him. I don’t want to be like him.”
“He was for the underdog,” said my uncle. “And so are you.”
My uncle helped Mrs. Firestone out of the car and walked her back up the stairs. I could see him talking to her and her nodding and then shaking her head.
My aunt didn’t say one word until he returned to the car. Then she turned around and asked me, “Is that dog housebroken?”
“Of course he’s housebroken. He’s seven years old, isn’t he?”
“I don’t like the tone of your voice, Izzy,” said my uncle.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but it was a pretty dumb question, you have to admit. Anybody knows a seven-year-old dog is going to be housebroken.”
She sighed. “I suppose he’ll shed all over the place.”
“Probably,” I said. “He’s got kind of long hair but Mrs. Firestone won’t mind. Her place is full of cat hairs.”
“And who will look after him while you’re in school?” my uncle asked.
“Oh, he’s used to looking after himself,” I told him. “It’s Loretta I’m worried about.”
“Well, you can stop worrying,” said my uncle. “You’re not going to live there
—I mean you and Gus are not going to live there.” His face was serious and solemn. But then he reached back and touched Gus’s head.
“And besides,” said my aunt with another sigh. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Who to?” I asked. It sounded angry the way I said it and suddenly I realized that they were asking me to stay with them. Not only me but Gus too. In one night, I was getting two offers. I really preferred Mrs. Firestone’s but I knew that Gus wouldn’t be happy there. It was a big thing for my busy uncle and my busy aunt to let me stay with them. It meant that Gus’s black hairs would get all over their white carpets for one thing. For another, they’d have to put up with me. They didn’t know anything about kids. Like Mrs. Firestone, they probably didn’t even like kids but they were going to let me stay.
And what about me? I’d have to wake up every morning and see that pigeon-dropping painting in my room. Because it would be my room if I stayed. They couldn’t ship me off to boarding school with Gus. I felt sorry for them and I thought maybe I could learn to live with the painting. Maybe I could even get to like it. Maybe I could even get to like them.
I should have thanked them. I should have spoken to them in my soft, gentle voice but I didn’t.
“No,” said my poor aunt, “it wouldn’t be fair.”
“Who to?” I said, stroking the soft, sleepy head of my dog, Gus.
“To Loretta,” she said.
With love to Paul who will not read a story about a dog who dies.
Copyright © 1985 by Marilyn Sachs
Originally published by Doubleday (Young Readers) [0385176090]
Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.