Smells Like Dog by Suzanne Selfors Read Free Book Online Page B

Squeak said, tucking his napkin into his shirt.
    “Well you can’t because there’s no such thing,” Mr. Pudding said. “Cloud with eyeballs.” He poured himself a glass of goat milk. “I don’t know where I went wrong.”
    FRRRRT!
    Mr. Pudding nearly tipped over the milk pitcher. “What in the name of goat cheese was that?” He lifted the edge of the tablecloth and glared at the source of the sound.
    Dog, who lay at Homer’s feet, was having a terrible time with his digestive system. The whitewash had begun to work its way through his intestines, along with all the other things he had eaten that day, which included a slug, half of Squeak’s grilled cheese sandwich, and some goat poop.
    “Put that dog outside,” Mr. Pudding grumbled.
    “We can’t put him outside, dear.” Mrs. Pudding walked around the table, ladling chicken and dumplingsinto everyone’s bowl. “If we put him outside he might eat something he’s not supposed to eat.”
    “He might die,” Squeak said.
    Mr. Pudding took a bite of supper.
    FRRRRT!
    “How’s a man supposed to enjoy his meal with a dog like that under the table?”
    “Dear, you’re spraying bits of carrot all over your son.”
    Mr. Pudding stabbed a dumpling. “Dr. Huckle charged me thirty dollars just to tell me that the dog can’t smell.” He shook his head. “I don’t think keeping that dog is a good idea. How’s it gonna fit in around here?”
    Homer reached down and patted Dog’s head. “But I’ll watch him, I promise.”
    Squeak slid under the table. “Don’t make him go away,” he cried.
    Mrs. Pudding looked long and hard at her husband. No words were necessary with a look like that. Mr. and Mrs. Pudding might not have thought that Homer was up to the task of watching the new dog, but as long as Squeak put up a fuss, then the dog would stay.
    Mr. Pudding sighed, ate the dumpling, then shuffled through the day’s mail. “What have we here?” He held up a silver envelope.
    Gwendolyn dropped her spoon and squealed. “That’sfrom the Museum of Natural History!” She threw herself across the table and yanked the envelope from her father’s hand. Homer grabbed Squeak’s milk glass to keep it from falling over as the table lurched. Squeak climbed back onto the bench.
    “Look, look. They finally wrote back.” Gwendolyn bounced on her chair. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it.” She stuck her butter knife under the envelope’s flap and ripped it open.
    “Just a minute,” Mrs. Pudding said, leaning over Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “That envelope isn’t addressed to you.”
    “Of course it is,” Gwendolyn said. “I’ve written eighty letters to the museum’s director. Of course it’s addressed to me.”
    “No, it’s not. It’s addressed to Homer.”
    “To me?” Homer swallowed a soft lump of potato. Except for his subscription to the Map of the Month Club and the letters from his uncle, he never got anything in the mail.
    Gwendolyn stared at the silver envelope, her lips slowly forming the words, “Mr. Homer W. Pudding.” Color drained from her face. She didn’t move, didn’t take a breath. She looked as if someone had stuffed her.
    “Sweetie?” Mrs. Pudding whispered.
    Gwendolyn’s fingers turned white as she clutchedthe envelope. Then she opened her mouth so wide that everyone at the table could see the little wobbly thing in the back of her throat. She screamed so loud that, out in the yard, the farm dogs began to howl. From beneath the table, Dog howled, too.
    “Howooo!”
    “What’s this nonsense?” Mr. Pudding said. “Mind your temper, young lady.”
    Gwendolyn’s mouth snapped shut. “Homer W. Pudding?” she read again. “HOMER W. PUDDING?”
    Mrs. Pudding pulled the letter from Gwendolyn’s sweaty grip. “Calm down, Gwendolyn.”
    But Gwendolyn didn’t calm down. “WHY IS THAT LETTER FOR HOMER?” She pounded her fist on the table. The dumpling bowls rattled. “WHY? WHY? WHY?”
    Homer had no idea why