Dog On It by Spencer Quinn Page B

closer, getting the forks right under the cage. Harold’s face was very near. I didn’t like that face with its single heavy eyebrow, not one bit.
    “Easy there, Stalin,” Harold said.
    I didn’t think for a moment, just took off and flew at him. I forgot all about the cage until I crashed into it and fell to the floor. After that, I was a little woozy, barely aware of Harold’s laughter.
    We rolled slowly toward the buildings—a long, low house, a barn, some sheds—their wooden sides cracked, the paint peeled off, a broken window or two. Harold headed around the barn, lowered the cage, backed away, drove off.
    It was very quiet. The sun rose higher. The heat rose, too. I couldn’t smell water, not in the cage, not anywhere. I was pretty thirsty. I paced back and forth. Saliva started leaking out of my mouth, even foaming a little. I lay down. That was when I noticed a big black hole at the base of the rocky hill across the way, with a pair of rusty train tracks leading in. I knew what that was: a mine. Bernie had a thing about old abandoned mines in the desert. We’dexplored lots, and one thing I knew—how cool they were inside. That stayed on my mind as the day grew hotter and hotter.
    The sun sank behind the hill. The air cooled down, but that didn’t help my thirst. My tongue felt thick and dry, a strange thing, like it wasn’t part of me. Long shadows appeared. The sky grew dimmer.
    All at once I smelled water, a clean, lovely smell with hints of rock and metal. Then I heard footsteps. I rose.
    Mr. Gulagov appeared from around the corner of the barn. He carried a big bowl. Water slopped over the sides. He stopped in front of the cage, set the bowl on the ground. I almost could have stuck my tongue through the bars and lapped some up; it was the tiniest bit too far away.
    He looked down at me. “Hello, Stalin. How is life treating you?”
    I didn’t do anything, didn’t move a muscle, didn’t make a sound. My name wasn’t Stalin.
    “You and I will be good friends, Stalin,” Mr. Gulagov said. “It’s a little warm out here. Are you thirsty?”
    I stayed still.
    “Here is water. We have well water at this old mine, nice and cold.” He toed the bowl; a tiny wave of water broke over the side. “Want some nice cold water? I can move it closer, no problem. All you have to do is one simple thing—sit.” He paused. “Ready? Stalin, sit.”
    I remained standing.
    “Sit.”
    I stood a little taller.
    “Don’t disappoint me, Stalin. You must have been trained. You must know ‘sit.’”
    What I knew was between me and Bernie.
    “There’s something you will soon learn from me—I do not tolerate disobedience. And I always win.” His voice rose, and his face got flushed. “Sit! Sit! Sit, you stupid cur.”
    No chance.
    Mr. Gulagov kicked over the water bowl and stomped away. When he was out of sight, I stuck my tongue through the bars and licked up some of the moist dirt.

ten
                                                  
    I was lying down, my tongue hanging out. I started to pant, couldn’t stop. My mind drifted back to the one time I’d seen snow. This was on a hike Bernie and I had taken in some mountains, not exactly sure where. First there’d been a long ride in the car. Then we’d started walking, up and up, and all of a sudden, white stuff covered the ground. What a surprise! White stuff, everywhere. I zigzagged around.
    “Snow, Chet,” Bernie said. “This is snow.”
    I’d never even heard of snow. I sniffed it, tasted it, rolled around in it. Whooo—it gave me the shivers. Bernie threw snowballs. I caught them in midair. They went splat against my nose. I skidded all over the place, on my side, back to front, every which way. We had fun like you wouldn’t believe, and after, on the way down, we came to a spot where the snow melted into water between some rocks and ran—burbled, that was how Bernie put it—into a stream. I lowered my