My Life in Dog Years by Gary Paulsen Read Free Book Online Page A

correct words). The delivery man wet his pants and in a cloud of dog spit and dust clawed his way free, ran back to the truck and was gone before I knew exactly what had happened. Soon after, we received a polite note saying that that particular company would no longer deliver packages to us.
    Caesar never became angry. I never saw him fight or be aggressive to another dog, and while he loved to chase cats, Arnie particularly, when the day was done I would frequently find Arnie curled up on Caesar’s back by the stove, the two of them soundasleep. But Caesar would get excited and forget himself when there was food involved, particularly when the food was a hot dog. I think he would have sold his soul for a hot dog. With mustard and relish. When we had hot dogs or went on a picnic he would sit and stare until somebody handed him a wiener and then he would hit like a gator. You had to throw it or he would get your whole hand in his mouth, up to the elbow.
    I once was invited to a picnic and softball game in a small town nearby and since it was a nice day I thought it would be fun to bring Caesar. Had I thought a little more I would have remembered two things—that it was a picnic and they would have hot dogs and that Caesar
loved to
play ball—but then had I thought a little more I probably would not have owned Caesar in the first place.
    I brought him out of the back of the truck and people came to see him—one young boysaid he looked exactly like a four-legged dinosaur with hair—and after all the oohs and aahs at his size settled down, I left him in the truck with the windows open, told him forcefully, “Stay!” (ha!) and went off to see what was happening.
    I had gone about forty yards, saying hello to people and picking up a can of soda, when I met an old friend and stopped to chat. I had my back to the parking area and I suppose heard some of the commotion that was starting but it didn’t enter my mind until the man I was speaking to looked over my shoulder and said, “Isn’t that Caesar?”
    I turned and my heart froze. Caesar was standing next to a small girl—she couldn’t have been four—and he towered over her. That wasn’t so frightening as what the little girl was doing. She had taken a bite off a hot dog and was holding the remainder out to Caesar.
    Images of destruction roared through my mind. He had truly enormous jaws (I could fit my head inside his mouth) and he snapped at his food violently, especially hot dogs. It was too far for me to run in time and I yelled but it was too late by ages and I wanted to close my eyes but didn’t dare and as I watched, Caesar incredibly, with the gentleness of a baby lamb, reached delicately forward and took the hot dog from the girl. He swallowed it in one bite, then licked her face and moved on—though I was calling him—looking for the next child.
    They loved him. Kids came from all corners and fed him hot dog after hot dog and he was as careful and gentle as he’d been with the little girl. By this time he had the attention of the crowd and everybody loved him so much I thought they were going to riot when I tried to put him back in the truck.
    I let him out when the game started, andhe went to work in the outfield. He would sit around center field, in back of the outfielders, and watch the batter. If the ball came long or went between the outfielders he would grab it and run to the nearest player and drop it. I know of two grounders he shagged to stop a double—I hit both of them and was held at first both times because Caesar stopped the ball when it slithered past both infielders and outfielders.
    He loved the game and loved the day and when the afternoon was done we went back to the truck and a little girl came running up to me and held out a piece of paper.
    Drawn on it in crayon was a picture of a dog, a big dog, with a yellow sun in back of him and stick figures hitting at balls, and scrawled across the bottom was:
    WE LOVE YOU SEEZER.
    He is gone