Strider by Beverly Cleary Page B

white mark in the center of his face. He looked strong for a medium-sized dog.
    â€œHi, dog,” I said and thought of my ex-dog Bandit and the fun we used to have before the divorce, when Mom got me and Dad got Bandit.
    This dog looked worried and made little whimpering noises.
    Mr. President came dragging his gunnysacks through the sand. “Dog’s been sittin’ there since yesterday,” he said. “No collar, no license, no nothin’. Just sits there in sorrow.”
    â€œCome on, fella,” I said to the dog and patted my knee.
    The dog didn’t move. I scratched his chest where Bandit liked to be scratched. This dog looked up at me with his ears laid back and the saddest look I have ever seen on a dog’s face. If dogs could cry, this dog would be crying hard.
    â€œCome on, dog,” said Barry. The dog wagged his docked tail. It wasn’t a happy wag. It was an anxious wag. Dogs can say a lot with their tails, or what people let them keep of their tails. If he still had a tail, it would be between his legs.
    â€œSeems like somebody told him to stay, so he’s staying,” said Mr. President. “If he sits much longer, that dog jailer will come along and haul him off to the dog bastille.”
    â€œCome on, boy,” I coaxed. The dog didn’t budge.
    â€œIf I were running this country, I would hang everyone who dumps animals,” said Mr. President and went back to picking up beer bottles people leave on the beach.
    Barry and I slogged through the dry sand to the wet sand, both of us hoping the dog would follow, but he didn’t. I couldn’t forget the look on that dog’s face. I know what it feels like to be left behind, so I probably have the same look on my face when Dad and Bandit drop in to see me and then drive off, leaving me behind.
    When we reached the water, Barry said, “Remember that movie Dad took us to that began with all those guys in track suits running through the waves at the edge of the beach?”
    I got the idea. We both pulled off our shoes and socks and began to run up and down the beach, splashing through the little waves that crawled around our feet. The water just about froze our toes. As we ran, I could almost hear the movie sound track.
    When we began to pant, we pretended we were running in slow motion the way the movie showed the actors. All the time Ithought about that sad dog waiting for someone who didn’t come, maybe was never going to come. People can be pretty mean sometimes.

    Suddenly the dog came racing across the sand and began to run along with us. We speeded up, and so did he.
    â€œGood boy, Strider,” I said, no longer playing a part in a movie. I guess I called him Strider because there is a track club called the Bayside Striders, and Strider seemed like a good name for a running dog.
    When we reached the shoes and socks we had left on the beach, Strider shook himself and slunk, drooping, back to the place by the seawall where we had first seen him. He looked miserable and guilty.
    â€œPoor old Strider,” said Barry. “Something’s sure bothering him.” I wasn’t surprised when Barry called the dog Strider. We usually agree.
    â€œLet’s take him home,” I said as I tried to wipe the sand from between my toes with my socks. “Maybe we could find his owner before the animal control officer gets him.”
    When we got our shoes and damp socks on our sandy feet, we called, coaxed, and whistled, but Strider wouldn’t budge. He just looked worried and confused, as if he wanted to follow but knew he shouldn’t. Strider can’t talk, but he sure can act.
    The sun was coming out. So were surfers,who were struggling into wet suits beside their vans. We asked, but no one had ever seen the dog before.
    We gave up and walked to my shack because it is closer than Barry’s house. Walking in wet sandy socks wasn’t much fun.
    Oops. Here comes Mom. I’ll