Chapter One
M itzy, sit!”
Mitzy looks up at me and tilts her head to one side. She wags her tail, but she won’t sit.
“Grrr,” I growl. Mitzy whimpers and lowers her tail.
“Sorry, girl.” I kneel and give her a hug. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just frustrated. Teaching you to sit shouldn’t be this hard.”
Mitzy is a full-grown Airedale terrier. Her short, wiry coat is mostly tan, with a big black patch over her back. She has a long nose, a stubby tail, small ears, and a confused look in her eyes. The confused look is unusual for an Airedale. Airedales are usually very smart dogs.
“OK, let’s try again. Pay attention.” I stand in front of her. “Mitzy, sit.”
Mitzy chases her tail and barks. This is impossible.
When Mitzy’s owners brought her in, they warned me that she was a little “slow.” I promised them I could teach her the basic commands. “There is no such thing as a dumb dog,” I said. My grandmother, Dr. J.J. MacKenzie, taught me that.
Gran owns an animal clinic, Dr. Mac’s Place. She says that all animals—even pets like cats, dogs, and guinea pigs—are wild at heart. Kids, too. I taught her that.
My parents died when I was a baby, and Gran took me in. I don’t remember them, but Gran tells me I have my father’s freckles and my mom’s temper. Gran says taking care of animals prepared her for having me around. Very funny.
Some kids at school think I’m the luckiest person in the world, living with all these animals. It is fun, I have to admit that. Gran lets me help out with her patients at the clinic, and I sometimes get jobs, like training Mitzy.
Mitzy stops chasing her tail. I bet she’s dizzy.
“Come on, now. We’re not here to play. Mitzy, sit.”
Mitzy takes a step backward. “Rouff!” she barks.
I pull up gently on her leash and use my other hand to push down her rear end. Once her tail hits the ground, she lies down and rolls on her back, begging me to rub her stomach. She thinks this is a game. If I rub her tummy, she’ll think she can do whatever she wants in a training session.
“Come on, girl, stand up.”
Mitzy rolls back over and stands up, giving herself a good shake.
“Mitzy, sit.” I push down her rump. She stays in a sitting position for half a second.
“Good girl!” I shout. I scratch between her ears and hug her. The best way to train dogs is to praise them for what they do right. “That’s enough for one day.” I unclip the leash from Mitzy’s collar and she takes off, running as fast as she can around the fenced yard.
Mitzy is nothing like Sherlock Holmes, my old, slightly overweight basset hound who’s lazing in the shade by the oak tree right now. He’s my only pet. But our house is attached to Gran’s clinic, so I get to spend as much time as I want around dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters, mice, lizards, snakes, birds, and the occasional horse or goat.
“Maggie!” Gran calls out the back door. “You have homework to do. Let’s go.”
Ugh. Homework. What a horrible word. It gives me the shivers. Don’t get me wrong, I can do lots of things: I can shoot a three-point shot (sometimes), scrub the skunk smell out of dog fur, and even catch escaped guinea pigs. But homework? School? No thank you.
It’s not that I don’t try. I’ve been trying forever, it seems. But I always mess up. Gran has been getting serious about my grades. She keeps bugging me about asking for help when I get stuck and giving me the old “You’re almost in middle school” lecture. When that doesn’t work, she trots out the “You need good grades to get into veterinary school” lecture.
I’m tired of being lectured.
“I need to work with Mitzy a little more,” I tell Gran. “Half an hour. I only have a little math.”
“I doubt that,” Gran answers. “I’ll give you five more minutes.”
Five minutes of freedom left.
As Gran closes the door, her cat, Socrates, squeezes out. Socrates is a big cat. He’s a feline football
M itzy, sit!”
Mitzy looks up at me and tilts her head to one side. She wags her tail, but she won’t sit.
“Grrr,” I growl. Mitzy whimpers and lowers her tail.
“Sorry, girl.” I kneel and give her a hug. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just frustrated. Teaching you to sit shouldn’t be this hard.”
Mitzy is a full-grown Airedale terrier. Her short, wiry coat is mostly tan, with a big black patch over her back. She has a long nose, a stubby tail, small ears, and a confused look in her eyes. The confused look is unusual for an Airedale. Airedales are usually very smart dogs.
“OK, let’s try again. Pay attention.” I stand in front of her. “Mitzy, sit.”
Mitzy chases her tail and barks. This is impossible.
When Mitzy’s owners brought her in, they warned me that she was a little “slow.” I promised them I could teach her the basic commands. “There is no such thing as a dumb dog,” I said. My grandmother, Dr. J.J. MacKenzie, taught me that.
Gran owns an animal clinic, Dr. Mac’s Place. She says that all animals—even pets like cats, dogs, and guinea pigs—are wild at heart. Kids, too. I taught her that.
My parents died when I was a baby, and Gran took me in. I don’t remember them, but Gran tells me I have my father’s freckles and my mom’s temper. Gran says taking care of animals prepared her for having me around. Very funny.
Some kids at school think I’m the luckiest person in the world, living with all these animals. It is fun, I have to admit that. Gran lets me help out with her patients at the clinic, and I sometimes get jobs, like training Mitzy.
Mitzy stops chasing her tail. I bet she’s dizzy.
“Come on, now. We’re not here to play. Mitzy, sit.”
Mitzy takes a step backward. “Rouff!” she barks.
I pull up gently on her leash and use my other hand to push down her rear end. Once her tail hits the ground, she lies down and rolls on her back, begging me to rub her stomach. She thinks this is a game. If I rub her tummy, she’ll think she can do whatever she wants in a training session.
“Come on, girl, stand up.”
Mitzy rolls back over and stands up, giving herself a good shake.
“Mitzy, sit.” I push down her rump. She stays in a sitting position for half a second.
“Good girl!” I shout. I scratch between her ears and hug her. The best way to train dogs is to praise them for what they do right. “That’s enough for one day.” I unclip the leash from Mitzy’s collar and she takes off, running as fast as she can around the fenced yard.
Mitzy is nothing like Sherlock Holmes, my old, slightly overweight basset hound who’s lazing in the shade by the oak tree right now. He’s my only pet. But our house is attached to Gran’s clinic, so I get to spend as much time as I want around dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters, mice, lizards, snakes, birds, and the occasional horse or goat.
“Maggie!” Gran calls out the back door. “You have homework to do. Let’s go.”
Ugh. Homework. What a horrible word. It gives me the shivers. Don’t get me wrong, I can do lots of things: I can shoot a three-point shot (sometimes), scrub the skunk smell out of dog fur, and even catch escaped guinea pigs. But homework? School? No thank you.
It’s not that I don’t try. I’ve been trying forever, it seems. But I always mess up. Gran has been getting serious about my grades. She keeps bugging me about asking for help when I get stuck and giving me the old “You’re almost in middle school” lecture. When that doesn’t work, she trots out the “You need good grades to get into veterinary school” lecture.
I’m tired of being lectured.
“I need to work with Mitzy a little more,” I tell Gran. “Half an hour. I only have a little math.”
“I doubt that,” Gran answers. “I’ll give you five more minutes.”
Five minutes of freedom left.
As Gran closes the door, her cat, Socrates, squeezes out. Socrates is a big cat. He’s a feline football
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