Loudest Beagle on the Block, Page 2

  My mom thinks that being too neat is a sign that you’re not letting yourself be creative. She says her messy office is a sign of a busy mind at work. But her mess doesn’t have pets in it. Mom has never had a pet in her life. A few years ago, Dad said maybe we should get a dog. He had a dog when he was a kid, a long time ago. But Mom said she would have to do all the work taking care of it, and Isaac and I didn’t get too excited about it, so he dropped the idea.

  I do have a goldfish. Its name is Bird. That’s the kind of joke I thought was funny when I got it in first grade. It doesn’t sound quite so funny when I tell people nowadays, but I don’t have friends over very often, so it doesn’t come up much. I feed him and clean his bowl once a week and he just kind of floats around looking bored. That’s sort of what I thought all pets were like.

  Until I met this dog.

  We all jumped into our car and shook ourselves off. I dumped the dog carrier on the seat between me and Isaac. I squeezed my braids and water dripped out of them. Rain splattered on the roof and on the windshield. It sounded like the percussion section of an orchestra practicing outside, especially when the thunder joined in, BOOM BOOOOOOM!

  Mom fluffed out her hair and dried off her glasses, and then she turned around to peer into the backseat. “My goodness,” she said. “I guess we should let it out and say hello. Henry, does it have a name?”

  My dad opened the manila envelope. He squinted at the pages inside. “This says it’s a she,” he said. “And her name is Trumpet.”

  “Trumpet?” I repeated, wrinkling my nose. Trumpets aren’t my favorite instrument. They’re too loud and brassy. I like pretty, quiet instruments, like the harp and the piano and the flute. “That’s a weird name for a dog,” I said. “Especially a girl dog. I’d call her Piccolo or Viola instead.”

  “Maybe she’s a Miles Davis fan,” Dad said.

  “Who’s that?” Isaac said.

  Dad clutched his heart. “What are they teaching our children these days?” he asked my mom in a big tragic voice.

  “He’s a jazz guy, a trumpeter,” I said to Isaac, and my little brother lost interest right away. He didn’t get any of the musical genes in the family. Which is only one of the many reasons I think maybe Mom and Dad found him on the doorstep or something. There’s no way we could be related. I could never be as loud and irritating as he is.

  “Well, let’s let her out,” Mom said. Dad twisted around. His eyes were kind of twinkly. He actually looked excited.

  I took the zipper at the top of the bag and pulled it slowly, unzipping the big U. Before I’d gotten it open very far, a shiny black nose appeared in the opening. The dog poked and wriggled like she thought she could fit her whole body out through that tiny hole if she just tried hard enough. I pulled the zipper the rest of the way and the top of the bag peeled back.

  An explosion of fur flew out of the bag. Before I could even blink, a white and brown blur leaped onto my dress and tried to climb up onto my shoulders. Its paws caught in my hair and pulled one of my ribbons loose. I shrieked as the dog started licking my face with a big, pink, surprisingly scratchy tongue.

  “Awww, she likes you!” Dad said, clearly not seeing the difference between “liking me” and “trampling me into the car seat.”

  I was too busy trying to protect my face with my arms to answer him. The dog was practically up on my shoulders, poking its nose into every gap, trying everything it could do to get past my hands so it could lick my face again. Its whole body was wriggling so hard that I thought it would knock itself onto the floor of the car.

  “See, look how she’s wagging her tail,” Dad said. He reached over the seat to scratch the dog’s head. Trumpet jumped at his hand. Her claws dug into my legs as she pushed herself up. Her ears flapped around and she started to make this funny squeaking sound.

  “What is that?” Isaac said. “What’s that noise?”

  “It’s just how she says hi,” Dad said. He let the dog sniff his hand all over, which made her be still long enough for us to look at her.

  Trumpet was bigger than Aunt Miriam’s Pekingese, but she wasn’t very big. Her legs were long and white with big white paws at the end like fat marshmallows. Her back and head and ears were a soft tan color, like a cello or a new violin, with a patch of black in the middle of her back. Her long straight tail had a white spot right at the tip, and there was a triangle of white running down from a spot on her forehead, between her brown eyes, and over her whole muzzle. Her chest and underbelly were white, too. Her ears were long and droopy and smooth. They looked as silky as my velvet dress.

  “She is pretty,” Mom said as if she was looking for something nice to say.

  “Of course she is. She’s a beagle,” Dad said. “Hey there Trumpet. How’s it going, girl?” He scratched behind her floppy ears and her tail started going like a motor.

  “A beagle?” I said. “I thought Snoopy on Charlie Brown was a beagle.”

  “That’s true,” Dad said.

  “But he’s black and white,” I said. “He doesn’t look like Trumpet, except maybe for the ears.”

  “You’ll have to take that up with the cartoonist,” Dad said jokingly. “Aww, look at her licking my hands. Do I taste like chicken, Trumpet?” She wagged her tail and gazed up at him with her big soft eyes.

  Mom looked worried. “Don’t get attached, Henry,” she said. “We have to talk about this.”

  “All right,” Dad said with a sigh. He gave Trumpet one last scratch behind her ears and then turned around again. He started the car. “We’ll take her home for now and figure out the next step tomorrow.”

  “I like her!” Isaac announced.

  “That’s because she hasn’t tried to lick your face off yet,” I said. I glanced down at my dress. It was covered in little white and brown hairs. As the car started to move, before I could stop her, Trumpet curled up on my lap. She rolled onto her back like she was offering her belly to me. Her ears flipped up so I could see their pink-and-white undersides. She kind of looked like she was smiling.

  “She wants you to rub her tummy,” Isaac said. He reached over the bag and patted Trumpet’s stomach.

  “Are you sure? That’s weird,” I said.

  “Isaac’s right. Dogs like that,” Dad said, peeking at us in the rearview mirror.

  I gingerly touched Trumpet’s pink-and-white stomach. It was much softer than I expected. I ran my fingers through the little whorls of short white fur. She wagged her tail and wriggled closer to me, resting her head on my free arm.

  OK, I thought. Maybe she is a little bit cute.

  But I knew there had to be a catch. Why had the lawyer been so eager to get rid of her? Why had he rushed away in such a hurry? If she was a good dog, why didn’t he want to keep her even a minute longer?

  I had a feeling there was something we didn’t know yet about Trumpet.

  When we got home, I led Trumpet over to the couch. She seemed confused, so I picked her up, just like Desperado, and put her down on one of the pillows. But instead of lying down, she turned in a circle, and then in another circle in the other direction. She pawed at the pillow until it turned over, and then she sniffed the couch, and then she walked along to the other end and jumped off.

  Uh-oh, I thought. Trumpet was definitely no fat little Pekingese.

  I followed her from room to room as she sniffed everything. I was worried she might pee on something, even though we let her out in the yard for a long time before she came in. But I knew that was something dogs did sometimes. And I definitely didn’t want her to pee on my bed! Or my piano. Or on any of my stuff.

  She could pee on Isaac’s bed, though. That would show him for getting so excited about this dog. He wouldn’t leave her alone. He kept yelling and startling her.

  “Do a trick, Trumpet! Do a trick!” Isaac shouted. Trumpet gave him a funny, puzzled look. With the cute wrinkles between her eyes, it was almost like she was frowning at him.

  “You have to teach her a trick first,
Isaac,” Dad said patiently.

  “Can’t she do anything cool?” Isaac demanded. “Shake hands! Play dead!” he bellowed at her.

  Trumpet came over and sat on my foot. She leaned against my knee as if we were on the same side against Isaac. I kind of liked that.

  “We should start with sit,” Dad said. “Let’s get some cheese.”

  All three of us followed him into the kitchen. Trumpet wagged her tail when Dad took a piece of American cheese out of the refrigerator. He broke it into small pieces. She watched him intently.

  “All right, Trumpet,” he said. “Sit.”

  Trumpet wagged her tail and stared at him.

  “Sit,” Dad said, holding the cheese in one hand and pushing her rump down with the other hand. He had to push pretty firmly, but finally she sat down. Then he gave her the cheese.

  “Awesome!” Isaac yelped. “Do it again!”

  “OK,” Dad said, but now Trumpet was sitting. We had to pick her up and make her stand again, and then Dad shoved her butt back down, going, “Sit! Sit!” So I think she was a little confused. I would be, if I were her.

  “Well, this is thrilling,” I said after a few rounds of sit-and-cheese. “Can I go practice?”

  “Of course,” Mom said from the doorway. Mom loves that I like practicing so much. She wants me to be a famous musician as much as I do. She says she listened to Mozart and Chopin and Beethoven and Stravinsky the whole time she was pregnant with me. She wouldn’t let Dad play any of his “noisy” albums around her, in case it ruined my musical taste.

  “Don’t you want to play with Trumpet a bit more?” Dad asked.

  “That’s OK,” I said, standing up.

  “Yes, she shouldn’t get too attached either,” my mom said meaningfully. I knew that tone of voice. It meant Mom and Dad were going to have a long, boring conversation where they each said, “Well, I feel —” a lot. That’s how they make all their decisions, but it takes hours. So I scooted out of there as quickly as I could. If Isaac got stuck in the middle, too bad for him.

  Our music room is what my dad calls our “sunroom,” because it has all these windows and it’s usually filled with sunshine. Not that day, though. That day it was gloomy and wet outside. I like practicing when it’s raining because it fits the slow, sad songs that I like to sing best.

  One wall is a huge bookshelf with all my music books and CDs and a stereo with speakers and a record player so we can play my mom’s really really really old albums. There are comfortable armchairs around the room so that my family can sit in here and listen to me play, although Isaac always pitches a fit when we do this.

  The piano takes up half the room, all glowing black and shiny. I sat down on the bench and ran my fingers up and down the scales. This summer I spent one month at music camp, like I have for the last two summers. I like it there because that’s the one place where it’s not weird that I know every single Stephen Sondheim musical by heart. My best friend from music camp, Caroline, has this whole plan for us to move to New York and be Broadway stars together one day.

  After I got home from camp, I went to my piano teacher twice a week and my voice teacher every Wednesday for two hours. I can’t go that often during the school year because I have too much homework, so the summers are always very busy with music.

  Mom also signed me up for a ballet class on Fridays during August. She said it would make me more graceful. She said I would learn to express my music through my movements as well.

  Yeah. That didn’t happen at all. I felt like a caterpillar in my leotard — a short caterpillar — and I think I moved about as gracefully as one, too. It was extra-awful because Tara Washington was also in the class. She’s long and bendy and has perfect posture, and she giggled loudly every time I tried to do a plié. Tara and her best friend, Natasha, are not my favorite people, although they usually leave me alone if I stay out of their way. They’re too busy thinking about boys, especially Parker Green, their latest obsession.

  But now ballet was over and school was starting again and I had to focus on my music. Our school always has a Welcome Back Talent Show in the second week to get everyone excited for the new year. I don’t think it gets anyone excited for school exactly, but it’s fun to get up and perform.

  I’ve done a song for the talent show every year since first grade, but I’ve never won, no matter how much I practice or how much Mom tells me I’m wonderful.

  Last year I played the piano and sang this pretty French song called “Barcarolle.” It was really hard and I practiced it all summer and my teachers were all really impressed. But the talent-show judges gave first place to a trio of sixth-grade girls who dressed up in glittery dresses and lip-synched to a Hannah Montana song. My mom said that was “outrageous,” but my dad said, “I thought they were kind of funny.”

  It didn’t matter anyway. Now I was a sixth-grader, and those girls were gone, and this year was my last, best chance to win. I’d been working on a piece called “The Last Rose of Summer” that Charlotte Church sings, which is really pretty and sad. But I also liked “Alhambra,” which is all in Spanish — I thought the judges might be impressed by that. My plan was to practice both of them until I had them absolutely perfect, and then decide which one to do.

  I warmed up my voice a little and then started on the newest piece my piano teacher, Mrs. Mehta, had given me to practice. As my fingers hit the keys, I heard a jingle-jingling sound behind me. I glanced around and saw Trumpet come trotting into the room. She jumped up on the armchair in the corner. That’s where Mom sits when she comes in to listen and give me advice.

  “Are you a music critic, too, Trumpet?” I said, letting my hands play automatically. She cocked her head at me. It really looked like she was listening to the music.

  “All right,” I said, “what do you think of this?” I switched the pages on the piano over to “The Last Rose of Summer” and started to play. I took a deep breath and sang the first line of the song.

  Trumpet cocked her head the other way. She lifted her nose a little and squeaked, “ooo ooo.”

  “Shush,” I said and kept singing.

  “AWROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Trumpet howled suddenly. She threw her head back so her ears flapped. Her mouth was wide open to the sky. And the noise she was making was the loudest, most awful, unmusical sound I had ever heard in my life.

  I clapped my hands over my ears. “Trumpet!” I yelped.

  “AWWUUGH AWWUGH,” Trumpet kind of barked, kind of gurgled.

  “I guess she hates it,” Isaac said smugly from the doorway.

  I stared at Trumpet. Trumpet stared back at me, panting, with a goofy dog grin on her face.

  This was definitely going to be a problem.

  Mom came hurrying into the music room. “What was that horrible noise?” she said.

  I pointed accusingly at the beagle. Trumpet lay down on the chair and covered her nose with her paws. Her enormous brown eyes seemed to get even bigger as she gazed up at us.

  Mom crossed her arms. “Go ahead and play, Ella. I’ll make sure she doesn’t bother you.”

  I put my hands back on the keyboard. Trumpet sat up and leaned forward. I started to play.

  “AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUWHH, AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGHUH,” Trumpet howled. She threw her head back so violently that she nearly tipped over backward.

  “No!” my mom said loudly, pointing at Trumpet. “No! Bad dog!”

  “AUUUGH AUUUGH!” Trumpet barked back.

  “All right, that’s it,” Mom said. She hooked her fingers in Trumpet’s collar and dragged her off the chair and out of the room. “You will leave Ella alone to practice! Bad dog!” I could hear her scolding Trumpet as she dragged the dog away down the hall. “And that goes for you, too, Isaac!” Mom called over her shoulder. “Leave your sister alone!”

  Isaac rolled his eyes. “Like I want to listen to her stupid boring music anyway,” he said, but only loud enough so I could hear it and Mom couldn’t. He stomped back to the kitchen.r />
  Thank goodness for Mom. Otherwise I’d have no chance, between Isaac and Trumpet interrupting and bothering me. But now it was quiet again. I touched the keys lightly, calming myself down. Then I started to play from the beginning again. I sang as sweetly and sadly as I could.

  “AW​WW​WW​WW​WU​UU​UU​UU​UU​UU​UU​UU​UU​HH​HH​H AU​UU​UU​UU​UU​GH AU​UU​UU​UU​UU​UU​UU​UU​WH!”

  I couldn’t believe it. Trumpet was howling so loud you could hear her all the way from the other side of the house. I mean, our house isn’t very big, but Mom had dragged her upstairs. It wasn’t as loud as when Trumpet was sitting right beside me, but it was still kind of like a fire engine and a foghorn were trying to kill each other in the next room.

  I tried to play through it. I raised my voice and sang as loud as I could. I banged on the piano keys and hit the pedal to make the sound reverberate. It’s not the way you’re supposed to play that song, but I figured I needed to do something to drown her out. Maybe if she saw that her noise was having no effect, she’d shut up.

  No such luck. The louder I sang, the louder she howled. Plus it was a terrible way to rehearse. This wasn’t how the song should sound at all!

  Finally Dad came into the music room. He was rubbing his forehead like he had a headache. “Tell you what, superstar. Why don’t you take a break for a little while?”

  When I took my hands off the keys, Trumpet stopped howling. “But Dad, I have to practice! The talent show is less than two weeks away!”

  “I agree with Ella,” Mom said, joining us. She was frowning. “I tried to shut that dog in Ella’s bedroom, but it doesn’t seem to help. Maybe we should put her outside in the yard.”

  “But Glenda, it’s pouring,” Dad said. He pointed to the storm outside. “That would just be cruel.” He looked at me pleadingly. “You wouldn’t want to do that, right, Ella?”

  I felt bad. I didn’t want to upset Mom by stopping my practice, but Dad was right — it would be mean to make Trumpet stay outside in this weather. I sighed. “I have some reading I could do instead,” I said.