fullback, all rust-colored fur and muscle. Gran named him after a Greek philosopher. He sure does lie around and think a lot. Sometimes he acts like he’s guarding the clinic. Gran calls him a watchcat.
Socrates streaks across the yard, leaps onto the trunk of the old oak tree, and quickly claws his way up to a thick branch. Then he slinks along the branch and lies down where he can see the whole yard, like a lion watching the savanna.
“Show-off,” I say under my breath. “Come here, Sherlock,” I call. “Let’s show Mitzy how to do it.”
Sherlock gets up from his spot of shade and lumbers over to me, his long ears swinging and his tail wagging. Basset hounds are built low to the ground and can pick up smells easily. That’s why I named him after a detective. Sherlock’s nose is twitching, but everything must smell normal, because he comes right to me. He lifts his droopy eyelids expectantly.
“Sherlock, sit,” I say in a firm voice.
Thump. His hindquarters hit the ground.
“Sherlock, lie down.”
He stretches out his forelegs until he is lying down. He waits for the next command. Mitzy is watching us. I hope she’s learning something.
“Stay.” I jog to the far end of the yard. “Sherlock, come!”
He leaps to his feet and sprints toward me. Mitzy runs beside him. I kneel down and pet Sherlock. “You are the best dog in the world, aren’t you? A genius, an absolute genius.”
Mitzy puts her paw on my lap. When I reach for it, she rolls on her back.
“OK. You’re a good dog, too, Mitz.” I scratch her chest and she closes her eyes in contentment. “You just have to pay attention. You should watch old Sherlock here. He’s a great teacher.”
Suddenly both dogs prick up their ears and turn their heads toward the house. A car screeches into the parking lot next to the clinic.
Looks like we have a patient.
Chapter Two
T he dogs dash to the front edge of the fence, with me close behind. We peek around the house. A frantic woman gets out of her car holding a limp puppy. She runs into the clinic.
“Sherlock! Mitzy! Come!” Sherlock comes right away. Mitzy plops her tail on the ground at the far end of the yard. Now she wants to sit.
There’s only one thing to do. “Mitzy, lie down!” I command.
Mitzy jumps up and runs to the door. Maybe she’s not stupid, after all. Maybe she’s just a little confused.
When I herd the dogs inside, we’re greeted by friendly barks from the boarding kennels. This is where we keep dogs whose owners are out of town. I put Mitzy in her cage and make sure she has fresh water to drink. She slurps, splashing water all over the floor. I’ll have to remember to mop in here later.
Sherlock ambles toward the door that connects the clinic to the house, sniffing along the ground in hopes of discovering a hidden snack. Since he lives here and is the sweetest dog in the entire universe, he gets to go wherever he wants.
I walk to the front of the clinic, where there are two exam rooms—one on each side of the waiting room. Gran is talking to someone in the Dolittle Room. She named the exam rooms after veterinarians in her favorite books. I knock gently on the open door.
“Come in,” Gran says.
Gran is a big woman, no matter how you look at her. She’s taller than me—everyone’s taller than me—and her hands and arms are strong. She wears bright colors, even when she’s working in the clinic. Her hair is cut short enough that she can dry it with a towel, and I can’t remember the last time she wore makeup. She’s not a cookies-and-milk granny. She’s a doctor—smart, tough, and kind. I love her lots.
“Take a look,” she says.
I make notes to myself the way Gran taught me. Our patient is a black Labrador retriever. He looks like he’s only two months old. Puppies this age are supposed to have nice fat tummies. This little guy is way too thin. He should be moving around, exploring everything. Instead, he lies on the table. His dark eyes are sunk
Socrates streaks across the yard, leaps onto the trunk of the old oak tree, and quickly claws his way up to a thick branch. Then he slinks along the branch and lies down where he can see the whole yard, like a lion watching the savanna.
“Show-off,” I say under my breath. “Come here, Sherlock,” I call. “Let’s show Mitzy how to do it.”
Sherlock gets up from his spot of shade and lumbers over to me, his long ears swinging and his tail wagging. Basset hounds are built low to the ground and can pick up smells easily. That’s why I named him after a detective. Sherlock’s nose is twitching, but everything must smell normal, because he comes right to me. He lifts his droopy eyelids expectantly.
“Sherlock, sit,” I say in a firm voice.
Thump. His hindquarters hit the ground.
“Sherlock, lie down.”
He stretches out his forelegs until he is lying down. He waits for the next command. Mitzy is watching us. I hope she’s learning something.
“Stay.” I jog to the far end of the yard. “Sherlock, come!”
He leaps to his feet and sprints toward me. Mitzy runs beside him. I kneel down and pet Sherlock. “You are the best dog in the world, aren’t you? A genius, an absolute genius.”
Mitzy puts her paw on my lap. When I reach for it, she rolls on her back.
“OK. You’re a good dog, too, Mitz.” I scratch her chest and she closes her eyes in contentment. “You just have to pay attention. You should watch old Sherlock here. He’s a great teacher.”
Suddenly both dogs prick up their ears and turn their heads toward the house. A car screeches into the parking lot next to the clinic.
Looks like we have a patient.
Chapter Two
T he dogs dash to the front edge of the fence, with me close behind. We peek around the house. A frantic woman gets out of her car holding a limp puppy. She runs into the clinic.
“Sherlock! Mitzy! Come!” Sherlock comes right away. Mitzy plops her tail on the ground at the far end of the yard. Now she wants to sit.
There’s only one thing to do. “Mitzy, lie down!” I command.
Mitzy jumps up and runs to the door. Maybe she’s not stupid, after all. Maybe she’s just a little confused.
When I herd the dogs inside, we’re greeted by friendly barks from the boarding kennels. This is where we keep dogs whose owners are out of town. I put Mitzy in her cage and make sure she has fresh water to drink. She slurps, splashing water all over the floor. I’ll have to remember to mop in here later.
Sherlock ambles toward the door that connects the clinic to the house, sniffing along the ground in hopes of discovering a hidden snack. Since he lives here and is the sweetest dog in the entire universe, he gets to go wherever he wants.
I walk to the front of the clinic, where there are two exam rooms—one on each side of the waiting room. Gran is talking to someone in the Dolittle Room. She named the exam rooms after veterinarians in her favorite books. I knock gently on the open door.
“Come in,” Gran says.
Gran is a big woman, no matter how you look at her. She’s taller than me—everyone’s taller than me—and her hands and arms are strong. She wears bright colors, even when she’s working in the clinic. Her hair is cut short enough that she can dry it with a towel, and I can’t remember the last time she wore makeup. She’s not a cookies-and-milk granny. She’s a doctor—smart, tough, and kind. I love her lots.
“Take a look,” she says.
I make notes to myself the way Gran taught me. Our patient is a black Labrador retriever. He looks like he’s only two months old. Puppies this age are supposed to have nice fat tummies. This little guy is way too thin. He should be moving around, exploring everything. Instead, he lies on the table. His dark eyes are sunk
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