Field Trip by Gary Paulsen Read Free Book Online Page A

like they’re not even dogs. They won’t bother anyone. Besides, every good movie needs man’s best friend to really tug at the old heartstrings.”
    Atticus glares at me. I mouth,
I’m sorry,
and he tips his head in forgiveness. Then he glares at Dad for implying that he’s a dog. But Dad doesn’t notice.
    Atticus is pretty stealthy and knows how to act cool, but Conor…
    We take our places in the line of extras and slowly make our way to the front. Conor and Atticus stand next to Dad, holding their own leashes in their mouths. Dad thinks it’s demeaning to them to be led around; he follows the law, more or less, by clipping leashes to their collars, but he refuses to hold the other end, so the border collies pick them up and carry them.
    A woman with a clipboard, a headset, a walkie-talkie, and a ginormous cup of coffee hurries over.
    “I’m the AD.” She flips through papers on her clipboard.
    “That’s assistant director,” Jacob whispers. “She’s a goddess around here. All power flows through her. She’s spotted my star potential.”
    I hope he’s right. Plus, that would really help me out by killing some time.
    “You can’t have dogs on the set.” The AD points to Conor and Atticus. “Allergies and biting are huge insurance liabilities.”
    “Atticus and Conor aren’t allergic to anything,” Dad tells her, “and I doubt the cast and crew of your movie struggle to control their impulse to bite.” Dad cracks up. He thinks he’s funnier than he really is and never got the memo that it’s poor form to laugh at your own jokes.
    I feel Jacob freeze next to me. I poke him so he’ll hand the AD one of his headshots, but he can’t move. He’s got stage fright, or whatever fright it is when you need to make a good impression on the person who can get you in a movie and you can’t do anything to prove your star quality.
    The AD glares at Dad and stomps away in disgust. Jacob whimpers a little, the sound of a dream dying.
    “Don’t worry, Jacob. We’ll think of something to get you noticed. Dad always says there’s a solution to any problem. We just have to find it. He also says that two heads are better than one. And we’ve got five right here.”
    Before the five people can come up with any good ideas, one of the two border collies does. Conor hurls himself after the AD. I try to grab his leash, but he trots over to where she’s standing in a huddle of people with clipboards and sits down at her feet.
    I start to duck under the tape keeping us extras in a straight line to retrieve him before the AD notices him and has us thrown off the set, but I feel Atticus’s teeth on my pants leg, holding me back. I trust him and stay put. Jacob, Dad, Brig, and Charlotte stand next to me, watching intently.
    Conor starts leaning into the AD’s leg, trying to get her to bend down and pet him. He’s kind of spoiled that way—we’ve taught him that he’s always going to be petted. The woman’s ability to ignore affectionate puppies must really freak him out, because he pulls back and tips his head, studying her, wondering why she’s not dropping to her knees, talking baby talk and kissing his nose, like some of us do, although I’ll never admit to it publicly.
    The great thing about border collies is that they are super determined to get their own way. Conor’s ancestors moved huge herds of sheep across enormous fields and through numerous gates into specific pens with just a stern gaze and an obsession with pleasing their masters. One churlish movie person is no match for someone with his DNA. Conor stands up, puts his front paws on the side of her thigh, dips his head, and burrows his nose between her hand and her side, wiggling until she’s passively petting him. He tosses his head, making her hand caress his ears.
    I see her gently pat his head two or three times, tentatively.
    She looks down at Conor and half smiles. He looks intently into her eyes, then turns and stares at us and barks