Squashed by Joan Bauer Page A

Richard explained. “You take it when you need it.”
    “Think of something else.”
    “There is nothing else, Ellie, that you can afford.”
    “A retired policeman—”
    “Would have to be paid and would not sit in your field.”
    “A burglar alarm system—”
    Richard looked at me with pity. “The wires could be cut, and if you try to skip school, Miss Moritz would have you arrested.”
    The last three years I had played fast and loose with my squashes, but Max was different, world-class. He was 450 pounds already, my biggest yet by 130 pounds, and still growing. “You think I need a guard dog,” I groaned.
    Richard ate a Ho-Ho. “Only for nineteen days.”

    The woman at the Rock River Dog Pound informed me that
her
dogs had been through enough, were absolutely
not
for rent, and that I should be ashamed of myself for asking. The woman at the pet store said
only
fish were refundable, and
only
if they died of natural causes within one week after purchase. A dog—sheeyed me coldly—was forever. The woman at the office of Des Moines Adopt-a-Doggie said
her
dogs were sensitive and loving and only asked for a good home. Was that too much? If I wanted a “brash, unruly killer” I should call the police. The police said guard dogs were only used by trained professionals, and just what kind of business was I in anyway?
    I had not seen Wes at all, which was bad because he could forget me even though I was unforgettable two nights before. A chill was in the air bringing more bad news. Thieves had stormed the countryside pilfering two pumpkins across the Rock River border in Ebberton. Four down in thirty-six hours. Doom fell upon every grower.
    Richard showed up for dinner (split pea soup with sausage, biscuits, carrot salad, and sautéed cinnamon apples), dragging Spider, a large, bony mongrel in need of a bath.
    “He has no teeth,” I pointed out.
    “Doesn’t need them,” Richard said, nodding to Spider, who wheezed and lay down on my clean kitchen floor. Spider eyed the basket of biscuits longingly, and me like I was flea spray. “Give him a biscuit,” Richard directed.
    “I’m not wasting one of my biscuits on a—”
    Richard sighed, grabbed a biscuit, and placed it in my hand. “Give it to him, Ellie. Tell him he’s a good dog.” Spider glared at the biscuit in my hand, stood up, and started to growl. Spider was ugly but not stupid, and his
look
said to me that if he got the biscuit no one would get hurt. I threw it on the floor. He tossed it down, drooled, and crawled off to watch me by the back door.
    “There,” said Richard. “You’re on your way.”
    “To what?”
    “Peace of mind,” he said, ladling pea soup into a bowl.
    “Where is this dog from? What planet?” Spider was snoring now, insensitive to criticism.
    “The Ankers let me borrow him because Mr. Anker fell off his roof and needs lots of quiet for the next three weeks, which is impossible with Spider here.”
    “Why is it impossible?” Richard smiled and shrugged. “Is there something you should tell me?” I continued. “No. Don’t tell me. I’ll tell you. I can’t do this.”
    “Do you know why they call him Spider?” Richard asked.
    “I don’t want to know.”
    “You do want to know,” Richard said, beaming, “because he might not look like much—”
    “He looks like my worst nightmare.”
    “He’s a pumpkin thief’s worst nightmare,” Richard said. “Positively deadly.”
    I regarded the pumpkin thief’s worst nightmare: splotchy coat, tattered ears, sleeping death rattle. “He gums robbers to death?” I asked. “What if they bring biscuits?”
    “Robbers don’t bake,” said Richard, adding salt to
my
soup. Spider turned, old and battered, and snorted.
    “I don’t like this dog.”
    “You don’t like any dog, but for nineteen days, you can like
this
dog.”
    Spider was drooling, his tongue hanging from his mouth like a dead snake. “This dog,” I continued, “does not make me feel protected,