Junkyard Dog by Monique Polak

chapter one
    Everyone else just calls him Dog. I call him Smokey. Not out loud, of course. Customers aren’t supposed to talk to him. He’s a German shepherd. He’s mostly black with some tan. His muzzle is the color of smoke. There are matted clumps on his back coat. He looks like he needs a good brushing.
    The sales clerk doesn’t bother saying “hi” or “what can I get you?” His name is Pete. It says so in curly letters on his shirt pocket. Pete knows I never buy the stuff other people come in here for—soft drinks, cigarettes, a dozen eggs. I don’t shop in convenience stores. There’s no way I’d spend two bucks on a carton of milk. I only come in to drop off empties.
    And to see Smokey.
    I have a shopping cart, the kind old people use for groceries. I found it on the curb by our apartment. One wheel wobbles, so the cart lists a little to the right, but it’s still good for hauling empties. Today, my cart is loaded with plastic bags, each one overflowing with empties.
    Pete leans over the counter to grab the bags. From the way he uses only his fingertips, you’d think he was afraid of catching cooties. That bothers me. I may not be dressed fancy, in a blue blazer like the prep-school boys, but I don’t have cooties. Of course, I don’t say anything. I need Pete.
    The beer bottles make a clinking noise. There are sixty-six of them and two dozen plastic soft-drink bottles in all. Monday is recycling day, and you’d be surprised how many people put refundable bottles in their blue boxes. It helps, too, that people party on the weekend. Ten of those beer bottles are Dad’s. And that was just Friday night.
    â€œOne, two…” Pete always counts the bottles, even when I tell him how many there are. I figure he’d trust me by now, but he doesn’t. I fiddle with my baseball cap, pulling it down so it covers more of my forehead.
    Pete scoops up the last bag and heads for the metal basket where they keep empties. That’s when I make my move.
    First I take a quick look around to make sure no one’s watching.
    No one is.
    I have to be quick. Pete will only be busy for a couple of minutes.
    I reach into the front pocket of my jeans. I wrapped the chunk of hamburger in plastic. I found the meat where I collect bottles in our apartment building—the garbage room downstairs, next to the garage.
    I knew as soon as I smelled it that the meat was still good. I thought about Smokey straightaway. All he eats is kibble. There’s an economy-size bag of it behind the counter.
    Smokey is lying on the floor underneath the cash register. His head is resting between his front legs, but I feel his sad brown eyes watching me. He is trying to decide if I mean trouble.
    When I come closer, the hair on his neck stands up, and a low warning growl comes from deep in his chest. His lips curl, and I can see his teeth. They’re old and yellow, and his gums look swollen. But his legs are strong and muscular.
    I peel off the plastic and toss him the hamburger. His eyes follow the chunk of meat as it makes a quick arc in the air, then lands at his front paws. He looks at me again, then over at Pete, who is still rearranging bottles. Smokey gobbles down the piece of hamburger.
    He lowers his head and gives me another look. I wish I had more hamburger.
    The bell on the door jingles when Mrs. MacAlear, the old lady who lives in the apartment next to ours, comes in. She nods when she sees me. Then she opens her purse and takes out a sheet of paper, waving it in the air like a flag.
    â€œI understand you people have a photocopy machine in here. I need a copy, please,” she says in a too-loud voice.
    Pete looks up from the metal basket. “Machine’s out of order.”
    Mrs. MacAlear marches up to the counter. “What’s that you said? You ordered what?”
    â€œI said the machine’s out of order.” Pete moves closer to Mrs.