Stay!: Keeper's Story by Lois Lowry Read Free Book Online Page B

are, and how deeply aesthetic our tastes!
    But I was touched by his gesture, and in fact, when he thought I was simply nuzzling his hand in search of tidbits, I was actually studying the photograph very carefully.
    It was one that he had taken on the day of our meeting, only three days before. I stood beside the boy, who was grinning in that supercilious way, with his hands in his pockets, displaying his baggy trousers, enormous sneakers, and macaroon-like cap, pretending that he was in love with his clothes.
    My look was one of disdain. Disdain for the boy, for his clothes, for his smile, for the entire surrounding world. My lip was ever so slightly curled, my eyes half closed in boredom, my ears limp with ennui.
    It was, I have to admit, a marvelously sophisticated look, one that said attitude. I admired it. I admired myself for creating it. Unconsciously, sitting there on my frayed blanket, the photo in front of me, I created it again on the spot, lowering my eyelids, raising my lip a micromillimeter, turning my neck an infinitesimal bit to the left.
    The photographer leapt to his feet and shouted in exhilaration. Once, at the back door of Toujours Cuisine, I heard a cry of that sort. A Grand Marnier soufflé had just emerged from the oven, and the chef, overwhelmed by its height and fragrance, had cried out in the same way.
    "Pal!" the photographer shouted, almost delirious with pleasure. "You did it again! Can you do it on command?" he asked.
    Of course I could. I could do it whenever I wished. But command? Pardonez-moi? A self-respecting dog does not do things on command. On request, perhaps.
    "What shall I call it? What command can I give?" He was talking to himself but watching me.
    "I know, I know!" He knelt in front of me, looked me firmly in the eye, and said in a deep, commanding voice, " Sneer. "
    I yawned, turned around in a carefully thought-out circle, lay down on my blanket, and placed my head, my face impassive, on my crossed front paws. The photographer's face fell.
    He sighed and stroked me behind my ear.
    Finally he murmured, "Pal? Please. For me? Sneer."
    That was more like it. A humble request carries a lot more weight than a shouted command, at least with me.
    I raised my head, looked at the photographer, and sneered.
    In his joy, he actually turned a somersault. It was an embarrassing display, and I am glad we were the only two beings in the room. I chuckled to myself, aware of how little training it takes to make a human perform tricks of surprising idiocy.
    He hugged me. He ran to the refrigerator, brought out a cold frankfurter, dangled it before my nose, and said, "Sneer."
    Again I yawned. Bribery? Mon dieu.
    Abashed but learning, he returned the bribe to the refrigerator, stood in front of me, and asked politely once again. "Pal? Please? Sneer?"
    So I sneered for him one more time; he flew into one more paroxysm of joy; and finally I licked his hand, acknowledging that we were partners and friends.
    Thus my career began.

Chapter 8
    T HE PHOTOGRAPH OF ME AND THE BOY in the collapsed muffin hat appeared publicly the next week, in a Sunday supplement called "Fashions of the Times." Both of us, the photographer and I, admired it extensively. He left the publication on the coffee table, open to that page, just in case any neighbors dropped by.
    Late that morning I was lying on the floor, eating some leftover lasagna while the photographer, wearing his fuzzy bathrobe, worked on the crossword puzzle and sipped coffee. The telephone rang.
    "Yes," I heard him say, "he's my own dog. What breed?" He glanced over at me.
    I tossed my head and yawned. What breed. As if it made the slightest difference. It is a shallow human indeed who actually believes that the flowing, silky hair and disdainful face of an Afghan make it a more aristocratic dog than, say, a tricolored shepherd fathered in the Outback by a roaming herding dog with a few minutes to dally. The distinction of a dog lies entirely in its innate