Another Yorkie slurps at my face. I squeeze my eyes closed “You’re right. How can you be happy if you’ve just been robbed. A mistake to even suggest it.” Number four, if I’m counting.
Dad waves his hand in the air as if shooing my thought away. “The biggest mistake is mine. Mrs. Irwin claims I left her door unlocked.” Dad closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. “She fired me.”
DAY ONE, MISTAKE FIVE
“Did you forget, Dad?” I push the slurpy Yorkie away from my face and pat it. Another Yorkie flips on its back for a belly rub.
“No, I don’t think so. I’m almost positive I locked it. But the police say there was no sign of forced entry and the door was open.”
“You jiggled the handle to make sure the key worked, like you showed me?” I pat one dog with one hand and rub another’s belly with the other.
“Pretty sure I did.” Dad’s face looks red. “I can almost see myself doing it.”
“Even if you didn’t, it doesn’t mean the robbery’s your fault,” Renée says. The other Yorkies crowd around her for pats, too. So many of them.
“Doesn’t Mrs. Irwin have an alarm system?” I ask.
“Yes. And like everyone else’s, it was going off because of the power failure. No one ever pays attention anymore.”
Renée nods. “No one checks on cars when alarms go off, either. They’re just annoying.”
Dad shakes his head, looking annoyed with himself. “Usually, I talk to myself as I lock the door. Trick I learned in air traffic. That way, what you’re doing becomes less mindless. You register that you’re doing it. But I must have made a mistake.”
“You tell me all the time that mistakes are good things. They help us discover amazing stuff. Is that only true for kids? Not for adults?”
“No, I believe we’re all meant to make mistakes. They teach us things.” Dad runs his hand through his hair and frowns. “Losing Mrs. Irwin is like losing five clients. Maybe what I’m supposed to learn is that dog walking is not for me.”
“You love it, though!” Renée says.
Dad shrugs. “Yes, well. We have to pay the bills like everyone else.”
Hunter licks at another Yorkie’s mouth. Then that little mop rat rumbles low and cranky.
“What did the robbers take? Her paintings?” I ask.
The Yorkie rumbling grows into a growl.
“No. It was a Mr. Universe gold medal.”
“The one Mr. Sawyer won before he became custodian?” Renée asks.
“That’s the one.” Dad reels the Yorkies closer. “Mrs. Irwin was creating a special display for it. A bust of him.”
I try to picture that for a moment. Mr. Sawyer has long blond hair and a strong face, but what I best remember him for is accidentally-on-purpose tripping kids with his broom when they forgot to wipe their boots on the mat.
The Yorkie growl turns into a teeth-bared snarl.
“Stop it, Rose!” Dad commands the dog as he gives the leash a shake. Instantly, the growling stops.
“You’re so good with them,” Renée says. “She’ll hire you back, Mr. Noble. Don’t you worry. This is Mrs. Irwin’s mistake.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “No one else will want to walk these guys.”
“You’ve got a point.” Dad’s face brightens for a moment. He reaches into his pocket for treats, and all the dogs immediately sit, ears up. He smiles, then sighs as he doles out the liver bites. “For now I just hope she still pays for all the sweaters. I’m out for the wool, at least.”
Satisfied with their treats, the Yorkies jump up on their paws again and tug at their leashes.
“Okay, well, bologna’s in the fridge. Make yourself something to eat. See you later.” Dad walks off, looking a little happier than before.
Once he and the Yorkies are gone, we can hear Ping barking, see his little head through the glass window in our door. Pong’s long narrow snout and round black eyes hang over him. “Dad didn’t keep them in the basement.”
“Guess his mind is elsewhere,” Renée says as I unlock the door. “Okay, I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
“Me too,” I agree.
Ping bounces up to greet Renée, yipping frantically. Pong bumps silently against my leg. I pat his head. When Ping yips my way, I crouch down and pat him, too, except then he jumps up and licks inside my nostril. I push his muzzle away gently. Even while wiping away dog spit, I love this. Love having someone so happy that we’ve arrived. I will hate it if Dad gives up his dog-walking business. All because of Mrs. Irwin. An artist who didn’t even believe in art until the art gallery contest.
Once we give the dogs some love, we all head for the kitchen. I grab some bologna and some bread. “How would anyone know the Mr. Universe medal was at Mrs. Irwin’s house?” I wonder out loud as I spread mustard on my slices of bread.
Renée puts peanut butter on one of hers while toasting the other. “Maybe they didn’t. They just saw it in her studio or wherever she’s creating the sculpture. I’ve heard that the medal has a lot of gold in it.” The toast pops and she adds a dab of ketchup before slapping the bread slices together.
Yuck, I know, right? But it’s not as bad as it sounds. I nuke mine a little — I like my bologna warm — and grab for the peanut butter, too. “Wonder if Mr. Sawyer has insurance for the medal.”
“You would think so,” Renée answers. “But money can’t replace something like that.”
I roll up a slice of bologna and both the dogs sit pretty. I toss off a small bit to Ping and the rest to Pong. After I pour Renée and me a couple glasses of milk, we sit down to eat, dogs at our feet.
The landline rings.
Rouf, rouf! Ping sounds a second alarm.
There’s no reason for me not to answer it this time. I’m always polite to telemarketers because Dad says that could be his next job. But I read the name in the little phone window. Mason Man. Bailey’s owner, Dad’s sometimes client. Builder of all things brick and mortar. He fixed our school wall after Mr. Ron drove into it with the Volkswagen.
“Hello, Stephen Noble speaking.”
“Where’s your father?” a gravelly voice asks.
“Hi, Mr. Mason. He’s out with clients. Why don’t you try his business number?”
“I did. He’s not picking up.”
“May I take a message for him?”
“Yeah. I want my house key back. My phone
