Bailey's Story by W. Bruce Cameron Page B

lights in the living room. “Who’s there?” he asked loudly.
    The curtains that hung on either side of the front window blew in the wind. “Don’t come down with bare feet!” Dad shouted.
    â€œWhat is it?” Mom asked from the top of the stairs.
    â€œSomeone threw a rock through our window. Stay back, Bailey.”
    As Dad went out into the hall for a pair of shoes, I sniffed at the shards of glass on the floor. In among them was a rock. When I put my nose to it, I instantly recognized the smell.
    Todd.

 
    15
    A year or so later, in the spring, Smokey the cat got sick. He lay around moaning and didn’t protest when I put my nose down in his face to find out what was wrong. I could smell sickness, but even more than that, I could smell exhaustion. He was worn-out, his small body soft and limp. I licked him between the ears.
    Mom opened a can of delicious tuna, but Smokey just turned his face away from it. So I helped by finishing it up. Then Mom took Smokey for a car ride. When they came back, she was sad. Probably it was because cats are no fun in a car.
    A week or so later, Smokey died.
    After dinner, the family went into the backyard, where Ethan had dug a big hole. I helped, of course. They wrapped Smokey’s body in a blanket and covered it with dirt.
    Ethan and Mom cried a little. I nuzzled both of them to remind them not to be sad. I was still there, after all, and obviously I was a much better pet than Smokey.
    That summer we did not go to the farm at all. Ethan and some friends from the neighborhood would get up every day and go to people’s houses, where they’d cut grass with loud lawn mowers. I would go with the boy each day—that was good! But he’d always tie my leash to a tree while he worked, and that wasn’t so fun. I simply couldn’t figure out why the boy wanted to push a loud, smelly lawn mower over the ground instead of roaming through the woods or playing Rescue Me in the pond.
    When school started again, there were more changes. Mom would get home before Ethan did and come to let me in. The boy would arrive late, just before dinner, smelling of dirt, sweat, and grass. On some nights we’d all pile into the car and go to a big yard, where Ethan would play chase and fetch on a wide lawn with a lot of other boys. “Hey, Bailey, want to come to the football game?” Ethan would ask.
    One very odd thing about this game was that a lot of people would sit or stand around, and they’d all yell and scream for no reason at all. It was confusing, but the tide of excitement that swept up from all those people made me wag frantically and tug at my leash.
    The first time I went to one of the games, I spotted Ethan, jumping up to grab a ball in midair. Another boy grabbed him, and they both rolled on the grass.
    As quick as I could, I leaped forward, and my leash slipped out of Mom’s hand. “Bailey!” she shouted.
    I dodged around a group of girls, jumped over a family sitting on the ground, and tore onto the big lawn to play with my boy.
    The ball had rolled out of Ethan’s hands when he’d hit the ground. I grabbed it. It tasted a lot like the flip—yuck!—and was big for my mouth, but when I got my teeth into it pretty good, it sank down to a better size.
    â€œBailey!” Ethan yelled, rolling to his feet. “Bailey, no! Bad dog!”
    But he couldn’t really have meant that I was a bad dog, because he was laughing. I danced away with the ball in my mouth, and when some of the other boys tried to get it back, we had a fantastic game of This Ball Is Mine all up and down the big lawn. Finally, Ethan stopped laughing and called to me as if he really meant it. I raced up to him, panting, and dropped the ball at his feet, waiting for him to throw it again so that we could play some more.
    â€œDoodle dog, Bailey!” he told me. Mom came running to the lawn to take my leash again. And then for some