The Boy on the Porch by Sharon Creech Page A

you go.”
    When John walked into the sheriff’s office, Darlene, the receptionist, was on the phone. From habit, John scanned the bulletin board.
    Â Â Â Â  LOST : THAT OLD COONHOUND OF MINE . HE ’ S RUN OFF AGAIN . IF YOU SEE HIM , CALL VERNIE GOSSEM , 555-7834.
    Â Â Â Â  ABSOLUTELY NO DUMPING IN THE CHURCH DUMPSTER . WE MEAN IT!
    Â Â Â Â  FOUND : FOUR KITTENS , CUTE THINGS , GOOD FOR MICE . ASK DARLENE .
    When the door opened behind him, John heard the sheriff’s voice.
    â€œWell, there, I hear you’ve got more kids at your place.”
    â€œYep, a real energetic group this time. Good kids, though.”
    â€œDon’t know how you have the patience.” The sheriff slid the back of his hand across his badge. “Still got that old beagle?”
    â€œThat’s right. Don’t suppose anyone’s been in here looking for us, mm?”
    â€œYou expecting somebody to be looking for you?”
    â€œNaw—sometimes kids need help finding their way back, that’s all. Just wondering.”
    Darlene interrupted her call and held the phone to her chest. “Somebody did.”
    â€œThat so?” the sheriff said. “Some kid or some bill collector? Ha-ha.”
    John tried to appear casual. He leaned against the counter. “Somebody was looking for us?”
    Darlene held up her finger. “I’ll call you back, Flo. Bye, now.” Darlene tapped her fingers on the desk. “Howdy. You’ve got some more kids up there, I hear.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œIt’s like a revolving door up there, isn’t it?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œDon’t know how you have the energy.”
    â€œDid you say somebody was looking for us?”
    â€œOh. Yeah, when was that? Can’t hardly remember one day from the next around here.”
    â€œHey,” the sheriff said. “Did you ever hear from that boy again? That cow-riding boy?”
    â€œWhat cow-riding boy?” Darlene said.
    â€œThey had a young boy dropped off at their place, years ago, remember that? And that boy used to ride a cow. A cow!”
    â€œI don’t remember anything about a cow-riding boy. I can’t hardly remember my own name some days.”
    â€œDid you say that somebody was looking for us?”
    â€œOh, yeah, a young college kid—couple of college kids, actually.”
    â€œWas one of them a boy?”
    â€œI can’t hardly recollect, but I think there were maybe a couple boys and a girl, yeah, there was a girl with them, purty little thing. She did all the talking, asking about you and Marta.”
    â€œCollege kids, eh? And one was a boy?”
    â€œLike I said, yeah, I think so. That was a week ago. Maybe longer. Like I said, I can’t hardly remember one day from the next around here.”
    John returned to Shep’s store and bought an extra sack of jelly beans. Just for old time’s sake , he thought.
    And that night John and Marta hung Jacob’s painting—of the boy riding a cow—in their bedroom, above the shelves of shoes, where it would be the last thing they saw at night and the first thing they saw in the morning.

51

    T he old beagle had not been well for several days. He hadn’t eaten, and when he was coaxed outside, he merely dragged himself to a nearby bush and lay beneath it, pawing at the dirt as if to make himself a bed. At night, John had to carry him back inside.
    One of the children—Weezer—said, “Don’t let him die, okay? Let’s not let him die.”
    To Marta, John said, “Don’t think this old dog is long for this world. I hope those kids won’t blame us if we can’t keep him alive.”
    Marta lifted the dog onto their bed. “It will be a sad, sad day when he’s gone.”
    When they heard the dog wailing the next morning, a pitiful wail that seemed to come from the hollows of his insides, they feared the worst. The dog was