that moment Ping snaps at Pong.
“Do they even like each other?”
“Not much.” I shrug. “They’re still adjusting.”
“Let me take the little guy.” Renée grabs his leash.
“No.” I grab it back. “He’s the hardest one to control.”
Ping rolls over and sits up, head cocked like he’s ready to listen. Renée holds out her hand and he places his paw in it. A perfect shake and perfect dog behaviour, all for Renée. Maybe little dogs like smaller people.
“Okay, fine.” I hand the leash back.
A flock of gulls squats down by the football field. When one gull lifts off and flies over us, Ping’s calm ends. He leaps into the air, barking. Rouf, rouf, rowf!
“Can we let them chase the birds?” Renée asks.
“Absolutely not.” I point out a sign that shows a stick man holding a leash attached to what looks like an elephant. “All dogs must be on leashes.”
“That’s a dog? Looks like a pterodactyl to me.” Renée drops Ping’s leash. “Whoops, my bad!” She winks at me as Ping tears after the gulls.
I shake my head at her.
“What? Technically, he’s still on a leash. Let Pong go, too. C’mon, it’s only fair.”
Ping’s legs turn into wings, his ears, happy flags in the wind. Such joy. I shouldn’t do it. I know I shouldn’t. Still, I release Pong’s leash, too. He sails after Ping, legs stretched full out, long snout open in a big toothy grin.
The gulls leap into the air, screaming insults at the dogs. Pong circles the field after one of them; Ping circles after another. Too late, I spot the skateboarder rolling down the path. Both dogs abruptly halt their bird chase and switch their attention to the wheels rattling over the pavement. They break into a gallop after them.
day one, mistake four
Letting the dogs run free tops all the mistakes I’ve made today. Mistake number four, if I’m counting, but it only happened because I listened to Princess Einstein. Ping leads the charge, baring his teeth, growling himself into a froth — a fuzzy streak aimed at those rattling wheels. Pong makes his quiet stealth-lope after Ping, toward the guy on the board.
He’s carrying a binder and is dressed in a white shirt hanging untucked over grey dress pants. Not a skateboarder look. Probably came straight from Champlain High School.
“They don’t bite!” I call as Renée and I chase after them. “They’re really very friendly.” Lame words that don’t help.
To avoid running over Ping, the guy flips off the board, landing really hard on the black paved path.
“Ping! Pong! Come back here!” Renée calls, as though they will listen to her.
Instead, Ping tackles the skateboarder, licking the guy’s face and wagging his behind. Pong stands close, sweeping the air with his tail. If I waited for the dogs to obey me, I’d be waiting a long time. Instead, I run to them and snatch up the leashes, yanking them away from the skateboarder. “Oh, man! I am so sorry!”
The guy doesn’t answer for a moment. His knees poke out of his pants, bleeding.
“Are you all right?” Renée asks. “I can run into the community centre and get some ice.”
“It’s just a scrape,” he answers, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. There’s something weird about those eyes; they look crossed but they’re not. Maybe because one looks more solid, darker. That’s it, one’s brown and the other is green. Renée’s staring and I shove her.
“You’re bleeding,” she tells him. “They’ve got a first aid box.”
“I’m fine,” he repeats. “I’ll clean it up at home.”
“Why wait? Infection can set in quickly. Have you had a tetanus shot in the last five years?” I ask him.
“Forget about it. I had my tetanus yesterday.” He sounds annoyed.
It’s at this point that I reach into one of my pockets for a business card. “We’re so sorry about the dogs. We should have controlled them better.” I hold the card out to him but he’s busy scratching behind Ping’s ears and smiling. A dog lover, phew! “Listen, your pants are wrecked. Send my dad the bill and Noble Dog Walking will cover it.”
“Dogs did me a favour. Tomorrow, I won’t have to wear these ugly pants to school.” He takes the card anyway. Maybe he knows someone who will need Dad’s services.
Pong squeezes in for some pats, now, whipping his tail across the guy’s shoulder. The skateboarder reaches way up to stroke his head. “What kind of dog is he?”
“Greyhound,” I answer.
“But he’s not grey.”
“They come in all colours,” Renée explains. “Grey means bright or fair in old English.”
The guy squints at her
I shrug. “She studies Wikipedia in her spare time. He’s a retired racing dog.”
“Must’ve been expensive.”
“Oh, probably.” Should I have said that? Maybe the guy will think our dog-walking service is only for wealthy dog owners. I pull the dogs away so he can get up. We give him a head start and he skates toward the community centre.
To be extra safe, we double back the other way, heading for the school again. Ping suddenly leaps into the air, barking like crazy.
“What is it, Ping? Another bag of dog poop in a tree?”
“Check out the roof!” Renée points. “There’s a dog running around up there!”
day one, mistake five
“Hey, Mrs. Klein’s up there, too.” I point to a wiry, short, red-haired lady. Our latest custodian is roaming the roof with the dog and a policeman.
“It’s not ball day today, is it?” Renée asks.
Once a year our other custodian used to clear the roof of all the balls that landed there.
“Of course not,” I answer. “Would she throw balls down when there’re no kids around to catch them?”
“You’re right. That would be no fun. She wouldn’t need the police for that, either. Maybe the dog is sniffing out a criminal.”
The Ping Pong team pulls us past the baseball diamond and goalposts, and up the hills toward the school.
“They’re looking for a bomb,” Renée says between breaths.
“Oh, yeah?” I bluster, so wanting her to be wrong. “How do you know?”
She
