We’ve gone back to the parking lot twice to look for Ribsy,” said Mr. Huggins late in the afternoon on the Saturday Ribsy had disappeared. “We’ve called the Humane Society three times to see if someone has brought him in. Now the only thing left to do is advertise in the newspaper.”
Mrs. Huggins picked up a pencil and paper from the desk. “What shall we say?” she asked.
“Lost: the best dog in the whole world,” said Henry, who was looking out the window hoping to see Ribsy finding his own way home.
“Henry,” said his mother, “it won’t do any good to keep staring out the window.”
“In books dogs find their way home,” said Henry. “They travel miles and miles, but they always come home.”
“But the lost-and-found notices are full of ads for dogs that apparently can’t,” said Mr. Huggins. “And when I was a boy I knew some people who lost their dog, and six years later they found it living a mile away.”
“Ribsy is smarter than that,” said Henry. “And he likes it here. The dog you’re talking about probably ran away.”
“To get back to the ad,” said Mrs. Huggins. “How are we going to describe Ribsy?”
“Medium-sized, patchy spots, and a long tail,” said Mr. Huggins. “The trouble with Ribsy is that so many dogs look like him.”
“Not to me they don’t,” said Henry.
“Then think of something different about Ribsy,” suggested Mrs. Huggins. “Something that would help identify him. Remember, he isn’t wearing his collar.”
Henry thought the matter over. He did not want to believe his dog was just like any old dog. There had to be something different about him. What was different about Ribsy, aside from his being the friendliest, most companionable dog in the world? Ribsy hung around the school yard, but so did every other dog that had a boy in school. He followed the mailman, but so did lots of other dogs. Sometimes the Klickitat Street mailman had so many dogs following him he would call “Column right,” or “Column left,” whenever he crossed the street. Ribsy could sit up and beg and he could shake hands, but so could…
“Hey! I’ve got it!” Henry exclaimed suddenly. “He’s left-handed. I mean left-pawed. He always shakes hands with his left paw!”
About that time rain began to fall again on muddy, violet-smelling Ribsy as he loped down the highway in the dark. Now he was not only bewildered, he was frightened as well. Unused to being out at night except on his own block on Klickitat Street, he found the world a strange and scary place. A gasoline truck, roaring down the highway dragging its dancing chain against the pavement, terrified him. Speeding cars came so close he was forced to run along the rocky edge of the pavement, and his paw pads, accustomed to lawns and sidewalks, began to hurt. And worst of all, the smell of violets clung and confused his sense of smell no matter how often he stopped and rolled.
Even though he was tired and footsore, Ribsy kept on traveling along the highway, because he somehow knew that this was the direction from which he had come. Once another dog startled Ribsy, who had not caught his scent through the violets, and after he and Ribsy had sniffed each other, the stranger made it plain that a perfumed dog was not welcome in that neighborhood. Ribsy did not even have the spirit to argue the matter. He slunk away with his tail between his legs. After glancing back over his shoulder at the dog, who was standing there defying him to return, he began to run again.
When Ribsy had run until he could run no more, he knew he had to find a place to rest out of the rain. The first shelter he found was a gasoline station, which had been locked up for the night. There was a roof over the three gasoline pumps. Ribsy curled up against the center pump, which made a shield against the wind. Shivering, he fell asleep in an aura of violets and gasoline.
Early the next morning Ribsy was awakened when the owner of the station came to work. “Beat it, mutt,” said the man. He was not angry, but he did not want a dog getting in the way.
Ribsy obeyed. He was cold, damp, stiff, perfumed, and hungry, which was all bad enough. He did not want to be unwelcome, too, so he trotted off down the highway, looking for a way to improve his situation.
He had not gone far when his nose caught a familiar smell that was strong enough to rise above the now-fading violets. Coffee! To Ribsy that smell meant breakfast. Not that Ribsy drank coffee. In the Huggins household coffee was always bubbling in the electric pot when Henry opened the refrigerator door to get out the dog food for Ribsy. Thus the smell of coffee had come to stand for breakfast to Ribsy just as it did to people.
Ribsy let his nose lead him to the source of the coffee smell, a window that was open a few inches at the rear of a small white house, set back from the highway. Ribsy could hear someone moving around in a kitchen. At home when Ribsy was outdoors and wanted to be fed he scratched at the door. That was what he did now. When the door was opened by an old lady, Ribsy lifted his ears and wagged his tail hopefully.
“My goodness!” exclaimed the old lady, whose name was Mrs. Frawley. “A dog. Shoo! Go away!”
Her voice was not unkind, so Ribsy whimpered hopefully and wagged his tail harder. That coffee smell must mean that dog food was near.
“Shoo.” Mrs. Frawley started to shut the door in Ribsy’s face. She had shooed dogs out of her yard for so many years that it had become a habit with her. Then the eager, beseeching look on Ribsy’s face must have caught her attention, because she hesitated.
Ribsy moved a step closer.
“I believe you’re hungry,” said the old lady.
Ribsy sat down and held up his left paw. This often pleased people.
It pleased Mrs. Frawley. “Why, Mr. Dog, how do you do?” she inquired.
“Wuf!” answered Ribsy, who felt that the situation looked hopeful.
“Did someone dump you out on the highway to get rid of you?” she asked, because this often happened here, at the edge of the city.
“Wuf!” said Ribsy agreeably. He was making every effort to be charming.
Mrs. Frawley relented. “All right. You look like a nice dog. I’ll give you something to eat. Don’t go away.”
Ribsy had no intention of leaving, especially when he heard the refrigerator door open.
Mrs. Frawley relented even further. She returned to the door and pushed it open. “You must be cold. Come on in. This is my day to scrub the kitchen floor, anyway.”
Willingly Ribsy entered the kitchen, and the door was shut behind him.
“Now let’s see,” mused Mrs. Frawley. “What can I find for a dog to eat?” There was not much in her refrigerator. Mrs. Frawley, whose husband was dead and whose children were grown, lived alone. “How would you like a scrambled egg?” She looked at Ribsy’s eager face. “Two scrambled eggs?” She poured a bowl of milk and set it on the floor. While Ribsy lapped thirstily she set about scrambling two eggs, which she set on the floor beside the empty milk bowl. Ribsy sniffed and then licked cautiously, and as soon as the eggs had cooled enough he wolfed them down and looked hopefully for more.
“You are a hungry dog,” said Mrs. Frawley, and agreeably scrambled two more eggs. “And you smell so nice. Like violets.” While she watched Ribsy eat she could not help thinking that it was pleasant to prepare breakfast for someone once more, even if it was only a dog.
Mrs. Frawley was a very lonely person. Her eyesight was not as good as it used to be, and she could no longer crochet or read very much. Mrs. Frawley was a person who liked to keep busy. Her days were long, because she had little to do and no one to talk to—at least not until Ribsy had appeared at her back door.
With four eggs in his stomach, Ribsy felt much better. He was warm, too, and after exploring the kitchen he walked into Mrs. Frawley’s small living room. It was a fussy room full of artificial flowers, crocheted doilies, little pictures, and figurines. The carpet was soothing to his sore paw pads and, after looking around, Ribsy curled up in front of the gas heater and went to sleep.
“Just as if you lived here,” said Mrs. Frawley, and smiled. She washed her breakfast dishes quickly and wiped up Ribsy’s muddy paw prints. Then she put on her best hat, coat, and galoshes, and took her pocketbook and umbrella, and quietly left the house. She started her old car and, still smiling, drove slowly off down the highway, ignoring the cars that honked at her to go faster. Mrs. Frawley’s social security check had arrived the day before. She felt like going on a little spree after church.
Ribsy did not awaken until Mrs. Frawley returned. When he went to the back door to be let out, she said, “Just a minute. I have a surprise for you. Something I found at the supermarket. Aren’t we lucky it’s open on Sunday?”
She opened a bundle and took out a leash and red collar, which she fastened in place. The collar was trimmed with rhinestones. Mrs. Frawley liked things fancy. Ribsy did not mind. He struggled only a little bit when she dressed him in a nice warm plaid coat. He was used to wearing a collar, but the coat puzzled him. He shook himself, but it did not come off. He tried standing on three legs and scratching at it with his left hind foot, but that did not work, either.
“My, don’t you look nice,” said Mrs. Frawley, and led Ribsy out the door.
Still puzzled, Ribsy walked along on the end of the leash. Mrs. Frawley allowed him to pause by bushes, and then kept on walking him along the edge of the highway. He was agreeable to this, because it was the direction in which his instincts told him he should be going.
“Morning, Mrs. Frawley,” said a tottery old gentleman, who had shuffled out to get his morning paper from a round metal box fastened to a post. “See you have a dog.”
“Yes,” she answered. “Someone must have brought him outside the city limits and dumped him. I don’t know what makes people do things like that.”
The old gentleman shook his head. “I’ve taken in so many stray cats my daughter says we don’t have room for any more. Just last week we gathered up three more and put them in gunnysacks, and she drove them into town to the Humane Society.” He looked Ribsy over. “Seems like a nice fellow. I always wondered why you didn’t get some kind of an animal, living all alone the way you do. What do you call him?”
“Rags,” answered Mrs. Frawley, after a moment’s hesitation. “His name is Rags.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Rags,” said the old gentleman.
“Anything interesting in the paper this morning?” inquired Mrs. Frawley. “I’ve stopped taking it. Since they raised the price, I decided there was no sense in spending the money when my eyes are getting so bad. I can get the news on the radio.”
“Nothing much.” The old gentleman glanced at the headlines. “They are talking about raising property taxes again.”
But the old gentleman was mistaken. There was something in the paper that would have interested Mrs. Frawley if she had seen it. Toward the back of the second section under “Lost and Found” were three small lines of type that read:
LOST at shopping center: mongrel dog, black, white, brown. Answers to Ribsy. Shakes hands with left paw. No collar. AT. 7-4139. Reward.
“Come on, Rags,” said Mrs. Frawley, tugging at the leash. “Time to go home now.”
This time Ribsy resisted, because he did not want to go back. He wanted to go on down the highway that led toward Klickitat Street. Mrs. Frawley pulled while Ribsy braced all four feet.
“Nice doggie,” coaxed Mrs. Frawley. “Come on home, Rags.” She pulled harder at the leash.
Ribsy finally had to give in and, remembering the breakfast Mrs. Frawley had so kindly given him, he did not mind too much. He would get away soon.
Inside the little white house once more, his new mistress removed the leash and blanket and, holding out her hand, said, “Shake hands, Rags.”
Ribsy obediently extended his left paw.
Then Mrs. Frawley got busy. She prepared a nice stew with meat and carrots and onions, the first she had cooked in a long time. She served Ribsy a generous helping for lunch. Ribsy was not used to lunch, only breakfast and dinner, but he did not object. After lunch he was taken for another walk on the end of the leash, and then he had a long nap, which he needed after eating so much. For dinner he had another serving of stew and a cupcake. That night he was allowed to sleep on the living room couch, which Mrs. Frawley had thoughtfully covered with an old blanket. This was a pleasant change from the pile of gunnysacks he slept on in the Hugginses’ basement. There was no doubt about it; Ribsy, although not particularly happy, was mighty comfortable.
The next day was much the same, and the next and the next, except that one evening after supper Mrs. Frawley asked Ribsy to sit up. “Sit up, Rags,” she said.
This, too, was familiar, so Ribsy sat up. Then he hiccuped. He was not used to three large meals and a cupcake for dessert.
“Good dog,” said Mrs. Frawley, and smiled as if she suddenly had an idea.
The next day Mrs. Frawley drove off once more in her old car. She returned with a doll’s straw hat, a pair of false spectacles, and a corncob pipe. She put the hat on Ribsy’s head, balanced the spectacles on his nose, and poked the stem of the pipe into his mouth. “Sit up, Rags,” she said.
Ribsy dropped the pipe and sat up.
“No, no,” cried Mrs. Frawley. “You’re supposed to hold the pipe in your mouth.” She put the stem in place again, and Ribsy sat there, not understanding what it was all about, but knowing that Mrs. Frawley was pleased. “Good boy!” exclaimed the old lady happily. She removed the pipe and gave Ribsy a piece of dog candy. “My, won’t you be a big surprise!” She spent the evening teaching Ribsy another trick, saying his prayers with his nose on his paws, propped up against the couch. It was not hard to do and it seemed to please the old lady, so Ribsy was agreeable.
For the next few days Mrs. Frawley bustled about cleaning house. She washed windows, polished silver, and vacuumed under the cushions of the couch. Ribsy did not care for the smell of ammonia or the sound of the vacuum cleaner, but whenever he asked to go out Mrs. Frawley always willingly dropped her work and took him out on the leash.
As the days went by Ribsy became restless. Even though his stomach was much too full, he still wanted to get out and run. He wanted to chase a ball and run after a boy on a bicycle. Sometimes, when he heard boys calling to one another, he would go to the window and whimper. Still, he did like the old lady, who fed him three meals a day and let him sleep on the living room couch. Unfortunately, his stomach was so full he spent more time thinking about running than actually trying to escape so he could run. He would put his paws up on the sill of the living room window, look out at the grass and the highway, and go take another nap.
Soon after the housecleaning there came a day when Mrs. Frawley was extra busy in the kitchen. She got out her best dishes, which she rarely used anymore, and washed them. Then she baked several kinds of cookies and gave Ribsy a sample of each. Mrs. Frawley was getting ready for a meeting of her club.
Mrs. Frawley’s club was made up of fifteen ladies her own age, who lived alone or with their children or in old people’s homes. They met once a month, and this month it was Mrs. Frawley’s turn to entertain them. Those who still had cars and could drive were to pick up the others and bring them to Mrs. Frawley’s little white house at two o’clock in the afternoon, because they did not like to drive after dark.
At a quarter to two Mrs. Frawley did an unusual thing. She took Ribsy into her bedroom, and said, “Now be quiet, Rags. Not a peep out of you.” Then she went out and shut the door.
Ribsy was so stuffed it was a great effort for him to jump up on the bed. He curled up and dozed off, and as he dozed he was aware of car doors slamming and ladies laughing and talking.
Out in the living room the ladies, each one carrying a parcel, were busy greeting one another and talking about their grandchildren. Each lady thought her grandchildren were smarter than any other lady’s grandchildren, and each lady became just a little impatient with the others for talking about their grandchildren when she wanted to talk about her own grandchildren.
Finally Mrs. Frawley put a stop to all the bragging about grandchildren by clapping her hands and saying, “I think we should begin. Who wants to be first?”
For this meeting each lady brought something interesting to show the other members of the club. It was like show-and-tell in school, only the old ladies did not call it show-and-tell. One lady brought a Civil War sword that had belonged to her grandfather. Another brought a beautiful shell, another a primer she had used in the first grade over seventy years ago. One lady brought a clay turtle her grandson had made. The other ladies secretly thought this was not very interesting and that their grandchildren could do much better.
Mrs. Frawley saw to it that her turn came last. “You ladies will have to excuse me a minute,” she said, and went into the bedroom and closed the door. “Wake up, Rags,” she whispered, and when Ribsy drowsily opened one eye she put his little straw hat on his head and slipped the elastic under his chin. Next she balanced his spectacles on his nose. “Come on,” she whispered.
Ribsy jumped heavily to the floor and trotted after Mrs. Frawley, who poked the stem of the corncob pipe between his teeth just before she led him into the living room.
“Ladies!” cried Mrs. Frawley, as if she was a master of ceremonies. “Presenting Rags, the newest member of the family!”
The ladies of the club all gasped and applauded. Ribsy was so confused by all the people staring at him that he dropped his pipe.
Mrs. Frawley picked it up and poked it into his mouth once more. “Sit up, Rags,” she directed. “Sit up, boy.”
Obediently Ribsy sat up. All the ladies laughed. “Isn’t that cute?” they murmured. “Isn’t that adorable? Just like a little old man.”
“Good boy,” approved Mrs. Frawley. “Now say your prayers, Rags.” Ribsy, who had not minded performing his tricks when he was alone with Mrs. Frawley, did not want to say his prayers in front of all these strangers. He did not like to be stared at and laughed at. He felt embarrassed and ashamed. He tucked his tail between his legs and tried to slink back to the bedroom.
The ladies all laughed. “He’s bashful,” someone said.
“No, no, Rags,” said Mrs. Frawley, seizing him by the collar and pulling him to the couch. “Say your prayers.”
With great reluctance, Ribsy sat up with his paws against the couch and rested his nose on them. The ladies were delighted. They laughed and clapped their hands. Ribsy gave Mrs. Frawley a mournful now-can-I-go look and slunk behind the couch, where he brushed off the hat and spectacles with his paws. Then he flopped down on the carpet and felt very, very unhappy. His sharp ears caught the sound of a boy calling, “Hey, Jack!” someplace outdoors, and he felt even more unhappy. Ribsy was a dog and not a person. He wanted to be treated like a dog once more, even if it meant sleeping on gunnysacks in the basement. He wanted to eat dog food and horsemeat, and roll on the grass, and chase balls, and run after boys and bicycles. This afternoon had been too much for him. Ribsy was determined to escape.
Mrs. Frawley explained to her club what she thought was true—that her dog was one of the many unwanted animals that were dumped along the highway, that other dogs had come to her door and she had shooed them away, but that this one was such a smart, friendly dog, who could shake hands, that she felt she just had to take him in. Then she served her guests ice cream and cookies and set a saucer of dessert on the kitchen floor for Ribsy.
Ordinarily Ribsy would have trotted into the kitchen to investigate when he heard the thump of a saucer being set on the floor, but not today. He was not going to come out from behind that couch and be laughed at by all those old ladies. Besides, he was not hungry. He dozed and waited.
Soon after the ice cream and cookies had been eaten the meeting broke up. The ladies with cars were anxious to start home before the evening traffic. The way people drove these days, they said, it was a wonder there weren’t more accidents than there were. Several guests peeked over the couch and said, “Bye-bye, doggie.” They were wishing their children or the old people’s homes they lived in would let them keep pets.
Ribsy paid no attention, but when he heard the door open, he edged forward and peered around the couch. The ladies were all busy buttoning their coats, wrapping their interesting objects, picking up their canes, and saying good-bye to one another. No one was paying any attention to the dog behind the couch. Ribsy waited for a clear path to the door, and when he saw it, he bolted so fast his feet slipped on the edge of the floor where there was no carpet. He fell, picked himself up, leaped down the steps, and shot across the yard to the highway as fast as he could go. It felt good to stretch his legs and run once more. Ribsy’s tongue flapped and his eyes shone. He was a dog again!
Behind him he heard Mrs. Frawley calling, “Rags! Rags! Come back here!” She was too late. Ribsy was on his way toward dog food and balls to catch and bicycles to chase. Mrs. Frawley would have to find another dog to keep her company, and in her neighborhood that should not be hard to do.