Dog 4491

By Sneed B. Collard III

Thanks to the combined forces of a comet and a lightning storm, a dog named Sophie travels in time from 1926 to the present, where she is taken home by Sam, an 11 year-old boy living in a run-down section of the city of Enterprise. Through a bit of sleuthing, Sam and his outspoken grandfather Horace discover the old neighborhood Sophie has apparently come from. With Sophie’s help, Sam travels back to 1926 to meet Sophie’s owner, another 11 year-old named Rollie. The two boys discover they have a lot in common—including the notorious Cheesebro gang that has terrorized Enterprise in both of their time periods! Together, the new friends hatch a plan to put a stop to the corruption, crime, and urban blight that has afflicted their city—and pave the way for a brighter, revitalized future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sneed B. Collard III
• Release date: Feb 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476120492

Sneed B. Collard III

Sneed B. Collard III has written more than fifty highly acclaimed books for young people including The Prairie Builders, Border Crossings, Little Killers, and the novels, Dog Sense and Flash Point. He lives with his family in Missoula, Montana.

Book preview

Chapter One

~

Sam first spotted the black dog about six blocks from his house. The dog hung back thirty or forty feet and at first, Sam thought it was just a coincidence the animal was padding along behind him. When Sam turned the corner onto Elm Street, though, the dog followed. Sam stopped to face it.

C’mon boy, he said. Come over here.

The dog halted, as if it might flee. Sam took a step closer, but the animal whipped around and trotted a few feet farther away, looking fearfully back over its shoulder.

Sam sighed. Like almost every other eleven year-old in the city of Enterprise, he had always wanted a dog.

No way, his mother, Irene, always told him. Between you and Horace, I’ve got enough mammals to take care of.

Horace was Sam’s grandfather and Sam had to admit, that Horace did take some effort. Long before Sam was born, Horace had been in some kind of accident nobody ever talked about. It had left him wheelchair-bound, unable to walk. It had also left his grandfather a bit crotchety, not that Sam minded so much.

But I’ll take care of the dog, Sam always countered his mom’s argument.

No way. No dog. That’s it. Finito. End of discussion, now and forever, until you go to college, make a million dollars, buy your own house far away from this God-forsaken city and have your own big yard and kids, his mother told him.

You couldn’t get much more definite than that.

Still, whenever Sam saw a dog, something tugged at him inside. He wished he could at least pet this black beast staring fearfully back at him.

Oh, well. Have it your way, Sam told the dog. He hoisted his backpack higher on his shoulder and continued toward his house down Elm Street.

It was funny, Sam always thought, that they lived on a street named after a tree. Looking up and down the street, Sam didn’t see a tree for blocks in either direction. A few overgrown bushes, a stump here and there, but no trees, and definitely no elm trees. The entire neighborhood was like that. The streets had names like Oak, Pine, Hickory, Maple, and even Walnut, but the only tree anywhere had been over near his friend Collin’s house. That one had finally keeled over last year, crushing an abandoned motor home.

This part of Enterprise used to be covered with trees, his grandfather Horace often groused. When I was a boy, it looked like a dag-blume forest around here. Then, they blasted through the Expressway and the whole neighborhood went to Hades in a hairy handbasket.

Sam could hear the roar of traffic from the Expressway a few blocks away, and he looked up toward the sky. Not for the first time, he tried to imagine tall, leaf-covered branches arching over the street, casting a canopy of cool shade over the crumbling sidewalk and hot black asphalt. Somehow, the ragged spiderweb of power and phone lines above him just wasn’t the same.

The sound of a scraping paw made him glance back at the dog, carefully trailing behind him.

Still there? Sam asked.

The dog’s ears drooped at Sam’s voice.

That’s okay. You just keep your distance if you want.

Sam finally reached his house, a simple clapboard bungalow with peeling gray paint. The little iron gate had fallen off, and over to the side sat a weathered metal fountain, built like some old-fashioned compass, that only filled up when it rained.

At the front door, Sam paused and slowly turned his head. The black dog stood at the broken gate, ears down, pink tongue hotly hanging out.

Hm, said Sam. He didn’t want to just leave the dog there. On the other hand, the animal would surely run if Sam again tried to approach it. Sam reached for the doorknob, and entered the house.

Chapter Two

~

That you, Samster? Horace called out to him.

It’s me, Horace.

Sam walked into the tiny living room where his grandfather spent ninety percent of his time watching television—usually with the sound turned off.

Well, come on in here, boy, Horace ordered, even though Sam had already entered the room. I was just watching on the news about that new comet that’s—

There’s a dog outside, Sam interrupted.

Surprise tweaked Horace’s face. What? Say again? Every time Horace said anything, he fired it out like a command or a challenge, but Sam knew that Gruff was just the language his grandfather spoke.

There’s a black dog outside, Sam repeated. I think he followed me home from school.

Well, we’ve got to see this!

Even though he couldn’t walk, Horace worked out with an old set of barbells, and he had forearms of thick, steel cables. They bulged as he whipped his wheelchair around and rolled himself toward the parlor window in the front. Sam rushed ahead and brushed back the ancient lace curtains that his grandmother had once made. Together, Horace and Sam peered out the window.

The dog, ears still down, stood with his front paws on the bottom step, carefully sniffing the cracks in the concrete. In the afternoon sun, Sam could see that the dog wasn’t pure black as he’d first thought. His sides and stocky legs reflected a faint brownish tint at the surface of his thick fur. A light strip of almost reddish color ran down the top of his nose.

You weren’t lying. That’s a dog alright, his grandfather barked.

You think he’s a stray?

Horace shook his head. See that shiny coat? Somebody’s been taking care of him. Looks kind of lost, though, don’t he?

What should we do? Sam asked.

You try to make friends with him already?

He’s scared. Wouldn’t let me come close.

Horace made the growling sound he always made when he was thinking. Then, he said, Well, if I was lost on a warm, dusty day, I’d want some water. Maybe some food.

Sam brightened. Yeah. Then, maybe he’d let me pet him.

Worth a try.

Sam rushed into the kitchen and pulled one of his mom’s aluminum mixing bowls from the drawer next to the stove. He quickly filled it with water and carried it to the front door. As soon as he turned the knob, he heard the dog’s claws scrabble away outside, but Sam slowly stepped out onto the small, concrete front porch.

The dog watched him carefully from the front gate, poised to run.

It’s alright, boy, Sam soothed. Just brought some water for you. Thought you might be thirsty.

Sam set down the bowl and straightened up, waiting to see if the dog would come. The animal would have none of it.

Okay, I’ll leave you in peace. You’re as stubborn as Horace, aren’t you?

I heard that! Horace’s muffled voice shouted behind him.

Sam laughed and walked back into the house. Then, he hurriedly joined his grandfather at the window.

He coming yet?

I believe he’s a she, Horace said.

Yeah?

"Yeah. I don’t see any private parts hanging out from underneath him—er, her."

Sam examined the dog, still facing the house from the gate. Me neither. But by now, he didn’t care if the dog was a boy or a girl or something in between. He just wanted it to drink the water.

As he and his grandfather watched, the dog turned its head in each direction. Then, it sniffed the air. After another few moments, it padded slowly up to the water bowl. It nosed all around and began lapping up the water.

It—I mean she’s thirsty, said Sam.

Hungry, I’ll bet, too. There’s a couple ’a leftover sausages in the fridge. Let’s see how she likes those.

Sam hurried to the refrigerator and found two slightly shriveled sausages entombed in a plastic bag. At the front door, he paused, his heart pounding. He again heard the dog’s claws scrabble away when he turned the knob. But this time, the animal retreated only two-thirds of the way to the gate. She watched as Sam slowly lowered himself down onto the top step of the porch.

The dog’s nose rose to sniff the air as the boy unwrapped the plastic bag. Sam glanced over at the window, where Horace sat watching, and his grandfather nodded. Breaking one of the sausages in two, Sam held out a piece and said, You hungry, girl?

The dog again tested the air and stared at Sam.

It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.

The dog continued to stare with large, brown eyes.

Come on. Don’t you want a tasty sausage?

Finally, the animal gave a little wag of her ropelike tail, and stepped forward.

Chapter Three

~

The dog wouldn’t take the first piece of sausage from Sam’s hand, so Sam laid it down on the sidewalk next to the bottom stair. The dog gulped it down.

Sam put the next piece of sausage on the step right below his feet. The dog ate that one, too. By the time Sam held out the third sausage piece, the dog took it directly from his fingers, coating them with slime.

That’s the way, Sam soothed, reaching out to pet the animal’s thick coat as he fed her the final piece of meat.

The dog responded to the attention. As Sam scratched her back, she wagged her tail and did a funny little dance on her paws.

Suddenly, Horace whipped around the side of the house in his wheelchair. The dog spooked. She scrambled back to the gate and watched Horace roll up to the steps where Sam was sitting.

Beautiful day, Horace said, turning his face up towards the smog-filtered sun. Feel like I haven’t been outside in weeks.

Don’t you mean years?

Horace gruffed. Smart-alec kid.

The dog stared at both of them.

"Who are you lookin’ at? Horace demanded. You know we’re not goin’ to eat you. Get your ’fraidy-cat shaggy black tail over here."

It’s okay, girl, Sam encouraged.

Slowly, the dog picked her way back toward them. She investigated Horace’s feet and the wheels of his chair, then nuzzled his outstretched hand.

There ya go. You aren’t as chicken as you look.

As Sam reached out to pet the dog again, he noticed the dog’s collar for the first time. He leaned over and examined it more closely.

I’ve never seen a collar like this one, Sam said. It was crafted of soft brown leather with a very old-looking metal buckle on it. In one part, the collar looked scorched, as if someone had held it over a fire. Sam said, It’s got writing on it.

Well, don’t keep me guessin’, son. What in a blue monkey does it say?

Sam spelled out the letters that had been etched by hand into the leather. S-O-P-H-I-E. Sophie. So that’s your name, is it?

Sophie wagged her tail and moved closer for more petting.

Hold on, Sam told his grandfather. There’s something else, too. G-A-R-D-E-N 4-4-9-1.

Garden 4491!

It must be an address, Sam said, releasing the collar.

Must be, Horace growled. But you know I’ve lived here all my life and I never heard of a Garden Street.

"Also, don’t they usually put the number in front of the street name?"

That they do. Of course, they might have forgotten at first and put it in later. But somethin’ don’t smell quite right about it.

What are we going to do with her? Sam asked.

Well, first thing is to get Sophie here a proper meal.

But you know Mom said I can’t have a dog.

Sophie isn’t a dog, Sam’s grandfather decreed. "She’s a guest. Besides, your mother won’t be home from work for at least a couple of hours. We may have Sophie back to her owner by then."

Chapter Four

~

Sam and Sophie followed Horace around to the back of the house. Unlike the front, the back steps had a thick, plywood ramp covering them. With quick, powerful bursts, Horace pushed himself up the ramp and in through the open back door. Sam followed, but Sophie hung back, tail wagging cautiously, her nose poked just inside of the house.

Horace began rummaging through the refrigerator.

What should we feed her? Sam asked.

Don’t see anything in here. Horace closed the fridge door, and began searching the lower cabinets. Ah!

He pulled out a can of chunked chicken. This’ll do.

Isn’t chicken kind of expensive? Sam asked, thinking how his mother always fretted about their finances.

Bah! Horace dismissed Sam’s comment with a wave of his hand. First rule of life. Always treat your guests like royalty.

I thought you said the first rule of life was to always obey your elders.

His grandfather furrowed his thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Are you going to stand there mouthing off all day, or are you going to open this dag-blume can of chicken?

Straining not to smile, Sam retrieved their crusty can-opener and opened the chicken.

Don’t drain the juice, Horace instructed. Sophie’ll like that, too.

Sam plopped the circle of compressed chicken and juice into a bowl and began breaking it up with a spoon.

No need for all that, Horace said. She’s a dog, not a queen.

"But you just said we should treat her like royalty."

Alright. Alright. Horace snorted impatiently. Give Sophie her snack.

Sam set the bowl down next to the kitchen counter, about eight feet inside the door where Sophie could see it. Then, he stepped back next to his grandfather. Sophie caught the scent and made a beeline for it.

Horace and Sam both watched as their guest began inhaling the chicken.

Hungry, said Horace.

Yeah, said Sam.

Neither of them said more until the dog finished the chicken and walked over to Sam for more petting.

What’s that address on her collar again? Horace asked.

Hold still. Sophie had begun doing her little happy dance, but Sam grasped her firmly and read off the number. Garden 4491.

Horace scratched the sandpaper whiskers on his neck. Hm. There’s somethin’ mightily familiar about that, but for the life of me I can’t place where it is.

Maybe it’s not around here, said Sam. Maybe somebody moved here and just hasn’t had time to get a new collar yet. I mean, lots of towns have Garden Streets, don’t they?

You got a point there, boy. Probably every city in the country has one—if not two or three. Still… Horace began chewing on his lower lip. Still, that address just tickles something in my brain. It’s like a big old apple hanging there, just out of reach.

Sam began scratching the longer fur under Sophie’s neck. Instead of doing her little dance, the dog now lifted her head up, closed her eyes, and growled with contentment. Sam laughed out loud.