Squashed by Joan Bauer Page B

you know? He’s lying there doing nothing. This is not the mighty guard dog who will protect Max against evil.”
    “He doesn’t have to do anything yet,” Richard explained.
    “This is a job interview, Richard. The dog so far has growled, eaten a biscuit—”
    “He likes your biscuits.”
    “—tracked filth and disease across my kitchen—”
    “When’s your father coming home?” Richard asked.
    “Any minute now. Why?” Dad’s car pulled in the driveway, and Richard grinned. Suddenly the dead heap that was Spider rose from its ashes. His eyes flashed hate and destruction, his bark took over great and full. I jumped up on the sink as Richard watched him like a proud father.
    “Hates noise,” Richard shouted happily over the barking. “Drives him crazy. Tell him he’s a good dog.” Spider had reeled into attack mode, snarling and spitting gloom. This did not seem like a good dog to me. Dad froze at the back door.
    “Tell him!” Richard yelled as Spider thrashed the screen door, trying to get to Dad, who was holding a rake to protect himself.
    “Ellie!” Dad shouted. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes, sir!” Richard yelled back. “We’re fine!”
    I jumped from the sink and grabbed a biscuit. Spider turned toward me, growling and fierce. “Good dog,” I lied. He cocked his old head and looked at the biscuit. “Good dog,” I said, dropping the biscuit, which he devoured. “That’s a very good dog.”
    Spider licked his gums and lay down by the sink. “He wants you to scratch him,” Richard explained.
    “Never.”
    “Scratch,” ordered Richard. I did, behind his ears.He closed his eyes happily and rolled over, indicating his stomach.
    “Forget it, Spider. I don’t know where you’ve been.”
    Dad entered, holding a trash can lid like a shield. “What,” whispered Dad, “is
that
?”
    “Insurance,” said Richard, handing Dad a biscuit. “How was your day, Uncle Mitchell?”
    “Safe,” said Dad, eyeing Spider, who burped and nuzzled my arm. “Very safe.”
    “He can sleep in the shed outside,” said Richard. “He won’t leave the property. Hates noise, remember? Gotta go.”
    “Richard,” I snapped, “this is not a good thing for me. This does not make me happy.” Spider, however, was happy, gurgling at my feet. Richard backed away. I was doing fine, he said.
    “See you, Uncle Mitchell,” Richard said, and waved.
    “Young man,” shouted Dad, “you’re not seriously leaving this…this—”
    “Dog,” said Richard, almost out the door.
    “If you leave now,” I threatened him, “I will injure you. You will never play baseball again, I swear!”
    “Would someone,” cried Dad, “please explain to me what that thing is doing in my house?”
    “Ellie will,” said Richard, grabbing two biscuits and closing the screen door quietly. “It’s her dog.”
    “You’re a dead man, Richard!” I shrieked, smiling at Spider to not get him nervous. “Good dog,” I told him. “Nice dog.” I tore after Richard, down the back porch steps, into the cold, past Max and his bells and my BACK OFF, CREEPS sign. Richard, the rat, was gone.Spider stood in the doorway gumming a cookie Dad had thrown at him.
    “Spider,” I said, “this is Max.” Spider seemed to take that in stride. I pointed to the shed. “And this,” I chirped, “is
your
house.” Spider growled, lowered his tail, and slunk back into the kitchen. It was going to be a long evening.

D ad, I, and the neighbors slept about seven minutes during Spider’s first night patrol. We got four angry calls about barking and two angrier calls mentioning rat poison, and I baked another batch of biscuits at 2:00 A.M. to silence Spider, who responded to a squeaky truck on Bud DeWitt Memorial Drive by reaching his full barking potential. Dad offered him a store-bought English muffin, which he spat out.
    Frost was in the air, putting Max in more danger. Most pumpkins can recover from a slight frost, but freezing meant the