Smells Like Dog by Suzanne Selfors
“Find any treasure yet?” Wilbur asked as Homer walked to his desk. He asked that question most every day, in a real nasty tone.
Homer used to answer that question. When he was little, he used to tell the other kids all about how he was going to help his uncle Drake find the lost treasure of Rumpold Smeller the pirate, but that always made them laugh, and not in a nice way. They’d also laugh when they caught him digging holes or searching the fields with his metal detector. “You ain’t never gonna find nothing,” they’d say.
And that’s what Wilbur said that very morning. “You ain’t never gonna find nothing.”
Homer bit his lip. He hadn’t found any treasure because, like most kids, he wasn’t allowed to take off and explore places like Egypt, or the Bermuda Triangle, or Dead Man’s Island, which is what a professional treasure hunter does. He wasn’t even allowed to go into The City on his own.
“Better use your compass or you might not find your desk,” Earl said, poking Homer in the leg with a pencil.
Homer hurried past the snickering kids and settled into his seat. Then he picked up his English composition book and stuck it in front of his face.
A bell rang and the class settled. “Homer and Gwendolyn, I was very sorry to hear about your uncle,” Mrs. Peepgrass said. Mrs. Peepgrass taught all the grades in Milkydale, since there were only twenty-one students. “Would you like to postpone your oral report, Gwendolyn, on account of the tragic circumstances?”
“I’m ready.” Gwendolyn strode to the front of the classroom and pulled the stuffed frogs from her pocket.
Mrs. Peepgrass rapped her fingers on her desk. “Now, Gwendolyn, you know the rule.”
“But these are for my report.”
“I have told you many, many times that I cannot abide having dead animals in my classroom. It’s unsanitary. You’ll get germs everywhere.”
Gwendolyn squeezed her forehead into one big crease. “I washed these frogs real good before I stuffed them. I bet there’s more germs in your nose than what’s on these frogs.”
Mrs. Peepgrass covered her nose. “Gwendolyn Maybel Pudding, do I have to telephone your mother?”
“Go ahead and call my mother. She thinks that my interests are interesting.”
Mrs. Peepgrass rushed at Gwendolyn and tried to grab the frogs but Gwendolyn darted down the aisle. The kids laughed. Homer rested his chin in his hand. It was going to be a long morning. Gwendolyn wasn’t the kind of person to give up an argument. He rubbed the sore spot in his leg where Earl had jabbed the pencil. Wouldn’t Earl feel stupid when an entire museum was named the Homer Winslow Pudding Museum of Treasure? He set the English composition book upright on his desk, then stuck his hand into his jean pocket and clutched the gold coin.
That’s when a shadow passed over Homer’s desk.
The sun, which had been shining through the row of windows, suddenly disappeared. Homer peered over his English composition book. Outside the center window, a small cloud hung much lower than a cloud is supposed to hang. Homer stared at it.
And something in the middle of the cloud stared back at Homer.
Weird Cloud
A cloud with eyeballs is perfectly acceptable in a fairy tale. And if the reader finds the cloud confusing, he or she can reread the chapter as many times as he or she wants until it makes sense. There might even be a glossary in the back of the book with a definition:
Cloud with Eyeballs—A distant cousin to Tree with Ears.
But in the real world, clouds with eyeballs are not supposed to exist. Even Homer, who believed in all sorts of things that weren’t supposed to exist, like the Lost City of Atlantis and King Arthur’s Camelot, felt dumbfounded. But a treasure hunter knows to listen to his gut, and Homer’s gut insisted that this was not a mirage. So he crept to the window to get a better look.
Mrs. Peepgrass stopped chasing Gwendolyn. “Homer Pudding, what are you doing now? Why are you staring out the window?”
“Um, there’s a weird cloud.”
Mrs. Peepgrass pressed her hand to her bosom as she tried to catch her breath. “I swear, you Pudding children are going to be the death of me. Homer, this is not the time to talk about clouds. Gwendolyn, put those dead frogs away and get on with your presentation.”
“Fine!” Gwendolyn set the frogs on the coatroom shelf, then, with her arms folded tightly across her chest, she took her place at the front of the classroom. Homer, however, stayed at the window.
The cloud moved closer. The pair of eyes blinked. They were normal-size eyes, the kind you’d find on most people’s faces. When Homer tilted his head, the cloud tilted. When he tilted his head the other way, the cloud tilted the other way. It was the creepiest thing he’d ever seen.
“Homer!” Mrs. Peepgrass screeched.
Gwendolyn stomped her foot. “Homer!”
Homer wasn’t trying to be rude. He didn’t know that his sister had spent ten hours in front of the mirror practicing her presentation. He didn’t know that she’d changed her clothes four times that morning or that she’d brushed her hair with one hundred strokes to make it extra smooth. What he did know was that a cloud with eyeballs was staring at him and that is why he said, loud enough for the entire class to hear, “That cloud has eyeballs and it’s staring at me.”
As soon as those words left his mouth he regretted saying them, of course. But words, once they float out of someone’s mouth, are forever. If you could figure out a way to retrieve words, you’d become a very rich person indeed.
All the students jumped from their chairs and ran to the window. “What cloud?” Carlotta asked, pressing so close that Homer could smell her bubblegum lip gloss.
“I don’t see a cloud,” Beatrice said.
“That’s because there is no cloud,” Melvin said. “Homer’s a liar.”
Indeed, the cloud had gone. Homer leaned on the windowsill, craning his neck to look up at the sky. How could it have disappeared so quickly? Had it evaporated? Could eyeballs evaporate?
Earl punched Homer’s arm. “Maybe the cloud’s lost. Maybe you should let it borrow your compass.”
Mrs. Peepgrass clapped her hands three times. “Back to your desks everyone. Homer, where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going outside to look…”
“This is not the time for games. Back to your desk, young man.”
“Homer!” Gwendolyn curled both her hands into fists. Her face got all blotchy. “Stop being so weird. You’re ruining my presentation.”
Homer shuffled back to his desk. He didn’t want to ruin his sister’s presentation, but he couldn’t shake off the image of those unnatural eyes. Maybe he’d eaten one too many huckleberry pancakes for breakfast. His body was so busy digesting the big lump of dough that his brain had gone all fuzzy.
He slid low in his seat and pulled his English composition book closer to his face. While Gwendolyn explained what the inside of a frog looked like, Homer hid from the stares and snickers of the other students. Great, another reason for the kids to make fun of him. He tried to distract himself by reading a paragraph about incomplete sentences. Totally boring. That, by the way, was an incomplete sentence.
At the end of the school day, Homer waited for the schoolhouse to clear, then he collected his coin book from the shelf and stepped onto the porch. Soft light filtered through the school yard’s grand oak tree. Gwendolyn and Carlotta had already passed the feed store and none of the other kids had stuck around to tease him. A group headed into the mercantile to buy nickel candy. Homer searched the sky, happy to see only normal clouds. He hoped that Gwendolyn wouldn’t say anything to their parents, because Mrs. Pudding would probably get all worried and make him go to the doctor for an eye exam.
Homer checked to make sure his coin was still in his pocket. Then he stuck his nose into his coin book and resumed his search. By the time he reached his driveway, he had come to the last page, but the coin’s identity remained unsolved. Uncle Drake would have told him not to be discoura
When the Pudding children arrived home from school they immediately began their afternoon chores. Farms cannot work efficiently unless all family members do chores. If you are a city dweller, your chores are probably very different from country chores. Perhaps you have to sweep your elevator, or pick garbage off your sidewalk, or get your doorman a nice cup of coffee. If your family is rich, you might not even know what the word chore means. Lucky you.
Homer’s first chore was to collect the mail. On that day, the mail included a catalog for farm machinery, the latest issue of Goat World, and some letters. The front cover of Goat World had a picture of two border collies. MEET THE AWARD-WINNING COLLIES OF THE CRESCENT GOAT FARM. Uh-oh. Mr. Pudding wouldn’t like that.
“He’s sick!” Squeak ran down the driveway, his boots kicking up bits of gravel. “He’s sick. Real sick!” He grabbed Homer’s hand, pulling with all his might.
“Who’s sick?” Homer asked.
“Dog. He’s real sick.”
“Dog?”
Squeak turned his little dirt-smudged face up at Homer. “The new one. I named him Dog.”
“Uncle Drake’s dog is sick?”
“No, Homer. Your dog is sick. Come on.”
Paint Milkshake
Dr. Huckle’s white truck was parked next to Mr. Pudding’s red truck. Dr. Huckle was Milkydale’s only veterinarian. She specialized in the treatment of goat ailments. Since every family in Milkydale owned goats, her old truck sputtered up and down the long farm driveways most every day.
“Over there,” Squeak said, pulling Homer’s hand.
Dr. Huckle knelt beside a white picket fence. The new dog lay on his side, panting. The farm dogs had gathered around, as had Mr. and Mrs. Pudding and Gwendolyn. The goats stuck their heads between the fence boards for a better view. Dr. Huckle picked up one of Dog’s long ears and peered into it with a skinny flashlight. “Are you sure he drank paint?” she asked.
Mr. Pudding stuck his hands into his overall pockets. “Saw it with my own eyes. I was getting ready to whitewash the fence and I went into the barn to get my paintbrush. When I came back, that dog had its face right in the bucket, lapping away.”
A splat of white paint had dried on Dog’s nose. His tongue, streaked white, hung out the corner of his mouth. He moaned as his belly rumbled. Homer remembered the time at the Milkydale County Fair when he’d eaten five corn dogs. Late that night, his stomach had puffed out like a basketball and had rumbled like a thundercloud.
Poor Dog.
Homer fiddled with the mail, wondering what to do. It was his dog, after all. He knelt and patted Dog’s head. “Will he be okay?” he asked.
“That depends.” Dr. Huckle poked her flashlight into Dog’s mouth. “Has he eaten anything else that he’s not supposed to eat?”
“He ate some sticks and a beetle,” Homer said.
“Sticks and a beetle?” Mr. Pudding rubbed the back of his neck. “What kind of dog eats sticks and beetles?”
“And cherry blossoms,” Homer added.
“That’s very odd.” Dr. Huckle removed a stethoscope from her black bag. “Very odd.”
“I’m sure he’ll be right fine,” Mrs. Pudding said, kissing the top of Homer’s head. “Not to worry. He’s just confused, being in a new place and all.”
Dr. Huckle pressed the stethoscope against Dog’s chest.
“Is he gonna die?” Squeak asked.
“He isn’t going to die,” Mrs. Pudding said, taking Squeak’s hand. Then she leaned close to the doctor. “He isn’t? Is he?”
“What dog in its right mind would drink whitewash?” Mr. Pudding asked. “I don’t think that dog’s got a right mind.”
“Whitewash looks like milk,” Mrs. Pudding said. “Maybe he thought it was milk.”
Mr. Pudding shook his head. “That dog’s got something wrong with its brain if it thinks paint is milk. I couldn’t get it to help herd the goats. It slept most of the day.”
“Basset hounds aren’t bred to herd,” Dr. Huckle replied. “But they can smell a rabbit ten miles away. Rabbit hunters love bassets.”
“We don’t hunt rabbit,” Mr. Pudding said.
“Urrrr.” Dog’s back legs went stiff and he closed his eyes.
“Did he die?” Squeak cried, clutching Mrs. Pudding’s arm.
“No. He’s still alive,” Dr. Huckle said. “I’d better take his temperature.”
Homer grimaced. Poor Dog.
But as Dr. Huckle reached for her bag, Squeak, trying to help, accidentally knocked it over. A little glass bottle rolled out and broke against a rock. A pungent odor rose into the air. Max, Gus, and Lulu tucked their tails between their legs and ran off. The Pudding family stepped away, as did the goats. “That stinks,” Gwendolyn said.
“It’s aromatic spirits of ammonia,” Dr. Huckle said, fanning the air with her hand. “Nothing to worry about.” But then she rubbed her chin in puzzlement. “Hmmm. That’s interesting. Your new dog’s not reacting.”
While the Pudding family members were pinching their noses, Dog just lay there.
“I wonder.” Dr. Huckle took a cotton ball from her bag, dabbed it in the spilled liquid, then held it to Dog’s nose. He didn’t wince or move. He just kept panting. “Amazing,” Dr. Huckle said. “Why, I do believe that this basset hound can’t smell.”
“Can’t smell?” Mr. and Mrs. Pudding said.
Dr. Huckle nodded. “That explains why he’s been eating strange things. He’s got no sense of smell to tell him what he’s supposed to eat.”
Mr. Pudding folded his arms. “I told you there was something wrong with that dog. I knew it the moment I saw it. Leave it to my brother to find a useless dog.”
“Maybe he’s not useless,” Homer said hopefully.
“This is quite a tragedy,” the doctor said. “The sense of smell is the most important sense for a dog. They greet one another through smell, they mark their territories with their individual scents. They choose mates, hunt, herd, and track all based on a keen sense of smell. This poor guy is shut off from the ordinary day-to-day things that dogs do. He’s at a terrible disadvantage.” She collected her instruments and closed her black bag. “I don’t think there’s any kind of treatment. He’s going to require a lot of looking after. You can’t leave him alone. He’ll need to be closely watched.”
Mr. Pudding snorted. “What? We don’t have time to watch a dog.”
“Well then, I suggest you find a new home for him, maybe with a nice retired person who has nothing to do. Without supervision, that dog’s certain to eat something poisonous and the next time it might kill him.”
“I’m not watching him,” Gwendolyn said. “I’m way too busy.”
“I’ll watch him,” Squeak said.
Mrs. Pudding gave her youngest son a hug. “That’s very helpful of you, Squeak, but it’s Homer’s dog. Homer will watch him.”
“Homer?” Gwendolyn said. “How’s he gonna watch a dog? He doesn’t pay attention to anything but his maps.”
“I didn’t know how to take care of a baby until I had one,” Mrs. Pudding said. “But I figured it out and I’m sure Homer can learn how to take care of this dog.” She tousled Homer’s curly locks. “Why don’t you come inside, Dr. Huckle, and I’ll make us a nice pitcher of lemonade. I’ve got some molasses cookies just out of the oven.”
“Make sure your dog drinks plenty of water,” Dr. Huckle told Homer. “He should be feeling better by morning.”
“You’d best get a bucket, Homer, and clean up that broken glass before one of the goats steps in it,” Mr. Pudding said.
The ammonia’s sharp stench drifted away as Homer cleared the glass. While everyone else enjoyed molasses cookies in the Pudding
And as it has happened throughout history, and as it will continue to happen, two outsiders found one another.
“I’ll watch over you,” Homer said.
“Urrrr.”
The Unexpected Invitation
In an attempt to cheer up her husband, who was still reeling from the news of his only brother’s untimely passing, Mrs. Pudding made chicken and dumplings for supper, which was the Pudding family’s favorite meal. Mr. Pudding sat at the head of the table, a pile of mail at his elbow. His gaze darted to his brother’s loafers, which sat in a corner. Homer, at the other end of the table, tried not to look at the shoes.
“How did things go at school today?” Mrs. Pudding asked as she set bowls on the table. “Did everyone enjoy your frog presentation?”
Gwendolyn sat extra slumped. “Someone ruined my presentation by acting weird.” She narrowed her eyes at Homer. He shifted nervously. Maybe his sister would be nice for once and not tell on him.
“Gwendolyn Maybel Pudding, it’s not polite to call another person weird,” Mrs. Pudding said.
“What would you call a person who saw a cloud with eyeballs? ’Cause I know what I’d call that person.” Gwendolyn tapped her spoon against the table, waiting for a response. Homer held his breath. Squeak giggled.
“I’d call that person not right in the head,” Mr. Pudding said.
Gwendolyn sat up straight and jabbed her spoon in Homer’s direction. “Well guess what? That person was Homer, and he announced it to the entire class right when I was about to give my presentation. I almost died.”