Mutt's Promise
DIAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
PENGUIN YOUNG READERS GROUP
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
Text copyright © 2016 by Julie Salamon. Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Jill Weber.
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eBook ISBN 978-0-698-18069-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Salamon, Julie.
Mutt’s promise / Julie Salamon ; illustrated by Jill Weber.
pages cm
Summary: “When their owner moves away, two dogs are trapped in a puppy mill until they take matters into their own hands”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-525-42778-0 (hardback)
[1. Dogs—Fiction. 2. Human-animal relationships—Fiction.
3. Survival--Fiction.] I. Weber, Jill, illustrator. II. Title.
PZ7.S1474Mu 2016 [Fic]—dc23
2015015747
Version_1
To our mothers,
Lilly Salcman & Barbara Schwartz, with love and gratitude
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. Brave Dog
2. Mutt Finds a Friend
3. Big (and Little) Changes
4. Mutt’s Puppies
5. What’s in a Name?
6. Puppy Days
7. Mutt’s Promise
8. The End of Summer
9. Signs of Change
10. A Stranger Arrives
11. A Terrible Journey
12. Puppy Paradise
13. Harsh Lessons
14. Louis
15. What Luna Realized
16. Back on the Farm
17. The Great Escape
18. On the Road
19. Freedom’s Feast
20. Luna’s Dance
21. Out of the Woods
22. Second Chances
23. Charlie’s Turn
24.Marty the Magician
25. Dogs in the City
26. Fitting In
27. Working Dogs
28. The Performance of a Lifetime
29. And Then . . .
30. Back Where It All Began
Author’s Note
A Note on Puppy Mills
Acknowledgements
About the Author and Illustrator
chapter one
BRAVE DOG
A striking golden-red dog ambled up the road, her long tail hoisted like a sail. She drifted through the thick summer air at a calm, steady pace. Though she once had a happy home, she was now on her own, unafraid to face her future—whatever it might be.
As the evening light shimmered in the heat, she gazed toward the setting sun, enjoying the sense of peace that had settled on this rolling stretch of countryside. It was quiet except for the mooing of distant cows. Then, with the ferocity of a lightning crack, the spell of this magic hour between day and night was shattered by horrible screams.
The golden dog didn’t hesitate. She ran toward the racket swiftly. It didn’t take long for her powerful legs to reach the source of the commotion.
She barreled toward two animals locked in deadly combat, one attacking with knife-sharp teeth, the other hissing and squealing as it attempted to escape. The dog rammed into the swirling ball of fur and began to bark furiously.
The attacker was slender, with a long, narrow body and a thick, impressive tail. He might have seemed cute, a house pet—if he didn’t use his teeth like daggers, and if his cries weren’t like eerie wails from a tortured soul. This was a tough customer, bent on tearing apart his prey.
The dog’s thunderous presence ended the skirmish. The merciless hunter ran off and vanished into a cluster of trees. The echoes of his human-like cries were left in his wake, like the disturbing memory of a nightmare.
The dog turned to the victim lying on the ground, wheezing with hurt and fear. It was a marmalade cat, whose orange-and-white coat was streaked with blood. Not sure what to do, the dog paced around the wounded cat.
The next thing she knew, she was being pushed aside by a man breathing hard from running. He knelt by the cat, his voice trembling as he offered reassuring words. “Hey there, Butch,” he said as he carefully scanned the animal’s damaged body. “You had a close call, buddy. It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of those fisher cats around here, and I hope that one learned his lesson.”
The cat began to moan. The man straightened up and ran back into the lopsided old farmhouse that was a short walk away. He reemerged a minute later, clutching a blanket, which he wrapped around Butch.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” he muttered, standing up with Butch in his arms. The man was tall and gaunt, his cheeks sprinkled with gray stubble. His eyes were deeply lined. “Those fishers may be called cats, but they’re really just weasels. The only thing they have to do with cats is killing ’em. I’m going to take you to the vet just in case you need a shot.”
Then he seemed to remember that the dog was still there. The man glanced down at her.
“What are you waiting around for?” he asked, with a note of amusement in his voice. “A reward?”
The dog didn’t really know why she had waited, but something was keeping her there.
Butch meowed in pain.
The man looked at his beloved pet and winced.
The dog remained where she was.
Ignoring her, the man cradled Butch in his arms and carried him toward the house. But as the man stepped onto the porch, he turned and looked back. The dog tilted her head and looked sympathetically at whimpering Butch, who was just a patch of fur sticking up out the blanket the man had wrapped him in.
“Well,” said the man slowly as he lifted the cap on his head and put it back on again. “I guess you did send that fisher packing. Stay here.”
The dog knew what “stay” meant.
So she stayed while the man went inside the house, and she heard him tell someone he was bringing his cat in to be looked at. She remained still, though her stomach rumbled hungrily. Only when the man came back outside with a plate of table scraps did the dog move. She raised her paw in greeting, the way she had been taught by people who had loved her. To her surprise, the man simply stared at the gesture.
“Don’t try to get cozy with me, you mutt,” he grumbled. “I’m just feeding you something to say thanks for what you did for Butch. Believe me, it’s nothing personal.”
But his eyes were warm, and when he put the food down by the porch, he gave the dog an awkward pat on the head. Then he dragged over a bucket filled with water and went back inside the house to fetch Butch. Soon the two of them were inside a truck and gone.
After eating, the dog lay down on the grass by the porch and shut her eyes. The sun was sinking and she didn’t have anywhere to be.
Her rest didn’t last long.
“What do you think you’re doing?” someone cackled.
Startled, the dog scrambled to her feet.
“Who are you?” she responded, checking out the copper-colored hen who showed no respect for the dog’s superior size and strength.
“I�
�m asking the questions,” replied the hen in a haughty voice. “But since you want to know, I’m Penny and I live here.”
The dog was amused by the bird’s moxie.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m—”
Before she could finish introducing herself, the hen interrupted. “I know who you are,” she said. “I saw the whole thing.”
Her voice had changed. The dog was pretty sure she heard admiration there.
“You scared off that nasty rascal,” Penny said. “That fisher! I know some people feel sorry for him and his kind because they’re an endangered species, but try telling that to a housecat. Or a chicken, for that matter. Those weasels are out to get us!”
The dog listened carefully and then answered with a genial bark. “Are you inviting me to hang around?” she asked.
The hen clucked and ran around in a circle. “That’s not my place,” she said. “That’s Mr. Thomas’s business, and I’ve never seen a dog around here. Not till you showed up.”
The dog was curious.
“What’s Mr. Thomas like?” she asked.
That question put a brake on Penny’s skittering. She stopped moving and squatted on the ground, idly pecking at bugs while thinking.
The dog waited patiently until the chicken stopped bobbing her head up and down.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Thomas,” Penny said. “Poor thing, he’s lived by himself with just that cat too long.”
Then the hen’s voice was joined by a choir of crickets as they began their screeching serenade. Evening had arrived.
The dog realized she could no longer keep her eyes open. It had been an eventful day. She told Penny it was nice to meet her and then lay down again on the grass next to the porch. The hen walked back to her little yard behind the barn, clucking to herself.
The dog woke up when Mr. Thomas returned with Butch. The cat’s neck was wrapped in a large gauze bandage.
“There, there, boy, you aren’t hurt too bad,” said Mr. Thomas softly as he carried Butch toward the porch. “The vet said you’re going to be fine.”
The dog was touched by the tenderness she heard in Mr. Thomas’s voice. She lifted her head.
“You still here?” Mr. Thomas asked, sounding surprised.
The dog pulled herself to her feet and began wagging her tail.
Mr. Thomas stared at the dog.
“Okay, mutt,” he said. “You can stick around. If you drive that weasel away, you’ll earn your keep.”
The next morning the dog was awakened by Penny.
“You still here?” the hen asked.
“Seems like that’s a popular question on this farm,” said the dog.
“Hey,” said the hen. “You never told me who you are.”
The dog paused for a second. “I guess my name is Mutt.”
“Mutt!” clucked Penny. “Not much of a name for a hero.”
chapter two
MUTT FINDS A FRIEND
Mutt kept her bargain with Mr. Thomas. She set out across the large field behind the farmhouse, barking loudly from time to time as a warning to lurking fishers and other unwelcome intruders. As she passed by a patch of woods and a small pond, she memorized her steps, so she would know where to go the next day and the day after, though she wasn’t sure how long she would stick around. Since she’d left home, she had been on the move.
She roamed to the far corners of the farm, past orchards where she saw people gathering fruit. The sun warmed her fur. Every so often she paused to take a cooling dip in the creek that ran through the farm. But for most of the day her sense of duty kept her going as surely as the sun moved across the sky.
The day was pleasant and mostly uneventful, except for an encounter with a noisy mob of chickens who didn’t realize Mutt was there to protect them. They flapped their wings and squawked mightily until Penny showed up and explained.
“Oh, hello,” one or two chickens squawked in Mutt’s direction. The rest just went back to scratching the ground and pecking for food as if nothing had happened.
When Mutt returned to the farmhouse, she saw that Butch the cat had emerged to lie on the porch. Before the dog could ask how he was feeling, Butch greeted his rescuer with a yawn and a look that said: “Don’t bother me.”
Mutt pretended she didn’t care. But that evening, after eating the food Mr. Thomas put out for her, she had to admit to herself that she felt a little lonely.
She flopped under a tree and was falling asleep when she heard a small voice call out.
“Hey, Mutt,” it said.
Mutt opened one eye, then the other, and then scrambled to her feet, ready to protect herself.
A boy was standing a few feet away.
“Isn’t Mutt your name?” the boy said. “That’s what Mr. Thomas called you. I heard him telling someone what you did for that lazy cat of his.”
The boy seemed okay. Still, Mutt kept her eyes on the ground.
“I see that you’re humble,” the boy said with a laugh. “My mother says that’s the sign of someone great. You don’t need to brag.”
The boy didn’t move while Mutt walked over to smell him. Satisfied that he was friendly, she sat next to him and allowed him to scratch her behind her ears. It had been a long time since Mutt had had her ears scratched.
“By the way,” the boy said formally, sticking out his hand, “my name is Gilberto. But my parents want me to speak English, so in English it’s Gilbert.”
Finally, Mutt thought, lifting her paw and touching Gilbert’s hand, someone around here who has some manners.
“My father and mother work for Mr. Thomas,” Gilbert explained.
Then he paused.
“Not exactly for Mr. Thomas,” he said. “He used to own this place, but then he couldn’t afford it, so a company bought it from him.”
Mutt was interested, but she had enjoyed having her ears scratched so much that she now had a sudden urge to have her belly rubbed. She rolled onto her back.
Gilbert patted the dog’s stomach as he kept talking.
“Anyway, they let Mr. Thomas live here and kind of run things, but he’s old and doesn’t do much,” he said. “We just come here to pick fruit. I mean, I do until school starts. We’ll be here until it turns cold and then we’ll move down to Florida for the winter.”
Mutt sneezed and Gilbert laughed.
“You probably don’t want to know all this,” said the boy.
That wasn’t true. It was a lot of information to take in, though, and Mutt was tired.
The boy stopped talking and just looked at her, as if he couldn’t believe she was there. He reached out and gently touched the fur above her right eye.
“Hey, Mutt,” he said, “that white mark on your forehead looks like a crescent moon!”
Mutt had no idea what he was talking about, but she instinctively rolled her eyes toward the spot where Gilbert had placed his finger.
The boy laughed. “Trust me, it’s there,” he said.
With his finger on the crescent moon above Mutt’s eye, Gilbert began to sing: “Allá está la luna, comiendo aceitunas.”
Mutt joined in with an enthusiastic howl.
The boy burst out laughing.
“You like this silly song my grandmother taught me?” the boy asked. “Yo le pedí una, no me quiso dar.”
He continued. “Saqué el pañuelito, me puse a llorar.”
When he stopped, Mutt playfully butted him with her head. She didn’t want the evening to end, and was afraid he might leave now that he had stopped singing.
“Oh, you want an encore,” the boy said. He began to repeat the song in English.
“There’s the moon, eating olives,” he began, pretending to put olives in his mouth. “I asked her for one. She didn’t want to give me any.”
He made sniffling noises. �
�I took out a tissue. I started to cry.”
Mutt whimpered, mimicking the boy.
“You are such a great dog,” said the boy, laughing as he hugged her. “I think you understand.”
Mutt understood that she felt happy, and that was enough for her.
They were interrupted by a voice calling out from beyond the barn.
“Gilbert!”
“Just a minute!” the boy replied.
He ran his finger across the moon above Mutt’s eye.
“Gilberto!”
This time Gilbert stood up.
Mutt growled softly. She didn’t want him to leave.
“When my mother talks to me in Spanish, she means business!” Gilbert told Mutt. “Good night, my friend.” He scratched her head in farewell. “See you tomorrow.”
Mutt fell asleep, wondering if the boy who saw the moon in her face was real or a dream.
chapter three
BIG (and Little) CHANGES
Mutt never failed to meet her obligation to Mr. Thomas. After spending much time on the road with nowhere in particular to go, she enjoyed having a schedule. And she liked feeling needed. So every morning, after she had something to eat and the night dew had begun to evaporate, she followed the path she had created.
Yet like many people who are satisfied with their jobs, she couldn’t wait for the end of the day. That’s when she knew she would see Gilbert. The minute Mutt’s work was finished, she would trot across the grass and down the hill to the boy’s house. She liked to be there when he returned home from the orchard, his hair matted with sweat, calling her name the instant he spotted her.
Mutt always waited patiently while Gilbert washed in the makeshift shower his father had rigged by the kitchen door. She had discovered that boys and dogs have a lot in common. Both of them could be so tired they couldn’t move one minute, and then ready to play the next. After Gilbert cleaned up, they would always run and fling themselves on the ground, over and over, as if they’d spent the day napping. When Gilbert’s mother, Silvia, called, they would return to the house and sink onto the grass by the door, ready to eat supper together.