Immortal Max by Lutricia Clifton

different sections. Choosing one of the clippings, I start talking, hoping to pass the test.
    â€œSee, this printout tells how the Yorkshire was developed in Yorkshire, England, as a ratter. And this one tells how it was brought to the U.S. in 1878 and became one of the most popular breeds of toy dogs because of its ‘sweet expression’ and ‘cheerful character.’ ”
    I stare at the words
sweet expression
and
cheerful character
, glance toward the dog at Mr. P’s feet. It answers with a growl.
    â€œA ratter, huh?” Mr. P raises scraggy eyebrows, looking pleased. “Like me, a hard worker—and an emigrant. After I get off boat, I work very hard, too.”
    As Mr. P finishes his baklava, I read the same section again to make sure I read it right. I’m surprised that a Yorkie is considered a working dog. All dogs started out as wild animals, but people tamed them and started breeding them to handle different jobs. Hunting. Herding. Protection. Even ratting. Now they’re bred for other reasons. As people toys.
Noisy
people toys.
    I make eye contact with the Yorkie. He bristles and starts up the boat motor. Ready to tear the big rat in the red velvet chair to shreds.
    â€œI get him a treat so maybe he is happy.” Mr. P hobbles to the kitchen.
    While he’s gone, I do more cramming. I learn that Yorkshire terriers will bark when anything changes—but especially when a stranger enters their living area. I groan as I read another clipping that tells how Yorkies have been known to bark incessantly while being walked on a leash.
    Great, just great. In my mind’s eye, I see Chief Beaumont writing out a citation.
    I chance a look at the dog again, get rumbling in response, and drop my eyes to my scrapbook. Spotting a crumb of baklava on red velvet, I flick it off.
    Like I just hit an Off button, the growling stops. Whiskery dog snarfs up the crumb and wags his tail at me.
    Aha
. I hold my plate close to the floor and let him lick it clean. He jumps in my lap when the crumbs are gone, licking my face.
    I laugh. “No, that’s all there is. I don’t have any more.” A happy dog lies down beside me. Man’s best friend.
    â€œHey, he likes you now.” Mr. P looks pleased when he sees the dog next to me. “Tell me more.” He calls the dog to him and feeds it treats.
    â€œUh, well, this article tells how the Yorkshire makes a good guard dog despite its size.”
    Mr. P’s eyes shine like bright black marbles. “That is my Apollo, all right. A good guard dog. Anyone comes close to the house, he wake me up . . . like
that
.” He snaps his fingers.
    Apollo. The dog’s name is Apollo. I debate whether it’s named after the Greek god or the spacecraft that went to the moon. Considering Mr. P emigrated from Greece, I opt for the god. This particular Greek god weighs about four pounds.
    Mr. P’s eyes turn sad. “See Apollo’s belly? Because of no walking, he gets fat. The vet, she says he must walk more.” He pats his own stomach, a basketball under his striped T-shirt. “I get fat, too. But my legs, they are not so good for walking anymore. Arthritis in the joints, you see.” He pats his knees.
    For him, that’s bad. For me, it’s good.
    Mr. P points to my scrapbook again. “You, uh, you going to walk any peekapoos?”
    Peekapoos? Why’s he asking about peekapoos?
    â€œUm, yes, sir. I’m going to see Mrs. Callahan next. She has two peekapoos.”
    â€œMrs. Callahan is nice lady. We talk about our dogs when I go to the office.
Very
nice lady.” His mouth turns downward. “She reminds me of my wife. I miss her very much.”
    Suddenly, Mr. P slaps his thigh. “Okay. A deal, we got. You start tomorrow, ten o’clock.”
    â€œGreat.”
I debate how to bring up the money part. “Um, did Yee and Anise talk to you about