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little like him—shortish, with plastic hair that resembled his hairpiece. “Sa-a-ay!” he called, setting down the statue. “What did the teacher say when I hammered my thumb?” He taped a hammer to the statue’s hands and lined it next to six other figures, some with shovels, others with brooms. “Smart, Bart?” Bart Coolidge laughed so hard it sounded like a draft horse whinny. Smart Bart’s is his used-car business. He must have dreamed of being a comedian because he’s got a million corny jokes, one for every occasion.
    â€œI like your seven dwarves, Mr. Coolidge!” Barker yelled.
    â€œFor Labor Day,” Catman whispered. “Hi ho, off to work. Get it? My parents are very big on lawn ornaments.”
    â€œStop on down to Smart Bart’s if you really want decorations!” Mr. Coolidge patted his hairpiece. “Sa-a-ay! What did one headlight say to the other?”
    I started laughing already. “I give.”
    â€œI’m brighter than you are!” He laughed so hard I stepped back. His Scooby Doo vest looked so tight. I didn’t want to be around when a button blew.
    We followed Catman inside.
    Mrs. Coolidge shouted from the winding staircase, “Calvin!” as if he’d been lost. She wore pink stretch pants, and her bright yellow hair was piled high as a beehive.
    She ran up to me and in one motion twisted my hair up off my neck. “I would give my right arm for this hair, wouldn’t you, Barker? I told the girls at the salon about your thick, wavy brown, dear. You have to stop in and prove Claire Coolidge is no liar!”
    She sat us at the mile-long table and fed us cookies and purple drinks in skinny glasses with paper umbrellas. Catman downed 14 cookies, eating the outside of each cookie first and then the filling.
    I leaned back in the carved throne chair and enjoyed how cool the house felt with the heavy, red curtains drawn and blocking out heat and light.
    Mr. Coolidge burst into the house and kissed his wife. Two of his vest buttons were missing. “I was talking with the boys at the Ashland business meeting about the future of our town. Calvin, did you declare a career today?”
    â€œA career?” I asked, trying to picture Catman selling used cars.
    â€œEighth-grade project,” Barker explained. “They have to research a career all year for a big report.”
    Catman licked filling from his lips. “Telegraph operator.”
    â€œAs in the Morse code?” Barker asked. “Dash . . . dash . . . dash?”
    â€œYep.” Catman peeled two bananas at the same time.
    Mr. Coolidge frowned. “Sa-a-ay! I don’t think they have telegraphs or operators anymore.”
    Catman got his catlike grin. “Groovy. No competition.”
    â€œA person must make a name in this world!” declared Catman’s dad. “Isn’t that so, Mrs. Coolidge? We all need a reputation!”
    I had to agree with him. “I could sure use a reputation as a horse whisperer. I just don’t know where to start.”
    â€œStart right here, young Winifred!” He patted my head. “Join the Ashland Business Association!”
    Wow! “Would they let me?”
    â€œDecidedly not!” he admitted. “But what of your father? Getting the Willis name about town would serve your purpose. It would be my great honor to invite him to our luncheon!”
    â€œNo kidding?” It was a step. Maybe Summer would stop making fun of Odd-Job Willis. “Thanks!”

    Later that afternoon Catman, Barker, and I took turns answering the pet help line at Pat’s Pets. I let Barker and Catman answer dog and cat e-mails first. I still wasn’t in a hurry to face Dad.
    As Barker wrote to someone called K-9, I read over his shoulder:
    I’ve tried everything to get my poodle to heel! I jerk the leash and drag her. I tried hitting her when she