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came around from behind her desk and stooped down next to Brody to put her arm sympathetically around his shoulder. Mason wondered if she thought he was a terrible person for not whispering his own goodbyes to Cat. But wouldn’t tearful speeches only make things worse?
    “Do you want to consider a dog?” the lady asked Mason’s parents, straightening up to face them. “Many people who are allergic to cats aren’t allergic to dogs.”
    Mason’s parents glanced hopefully at him. He shook his head. Three strikes and you’re out. Three pets and you’ve proved to the world—and to your parents—that you’re not a pet person.
    “Can we just look at the dogs?” Brody asked. “Since we’re here, and they’re lonely? So that they have some visitors?”
    The lady smiled at Brody. Some kids didn’t like Brody, Mason had noticed, because Brody was too enthusiastic about everything. But grown-ups always did.
    “Our dog room is right here through that door behind my desk. And if there’s a dog or two you’d like to have a private visit with, just let me know,and I’ll bring him or her to our Meeting and Greeting Place so you can make a closer acquaintance. All right?”
    The others nodded. Mason didn’t. He had no intention of making a closer acquaintance with any dogs, ever.
    Mason and his parents followed Brody into the dog room, a dreary space with a cement floor and a low ceiling, off the front lobby. Brody began exclaiming over the cuteness of one dog, the friendliness of another, as they walked past the long rows of large cages.
    The cages were large compared to Hamster’s cage, but not large for an entire dog. It was sad to see the dogs there: some barking, some thrusting their faces right up against the bars, some just lying there, head upon paws, gazing at nothing.
    Brody grew quieter and quieter.
    The dogs grew noisier and noisier. Mason didn’t see how the animal-shelter lady could stand working there listening to those shrill yips and yaps all day. However irritating a meowing cat was at four a.m. (answer: very irritating), an incessantly barking dog would be infinitely worse. Mason clapped his handsover his ears, but he could still hear them.
Bark, bark, bark! Woof, woof, woof! Bark, woof, bark!
Didn’t the dogs ever get sick of the sound of themselves?
    The four of them paraded slowly past the last row of cages in the dimly lit back corner of the room. Then one dog, barking as fiercely as all the rest, pushed a paw through the bars, as if reaching out to touch Brody’s shoulder. Mason couldn’t recognize most dog breeds, but he thought maybe this dog was a golden retriever. It was sort of golden-colored. He didn’t know if it could retrieve anything or not.
    Brody stopped short. He took the dog’s paw with one hand and put his other hand up against the bars of the cage. The dog licked it, his huge pink tongue lapping Brody’s fingers.
    For Brody’s sake, Mason hoped that the dog couldn’t bite from inside its cage. But maybe dogs didn’t lick you first, to see how you tasted, and then bite you. Maybe dogs did either one or the other: lick or bite. This dog was definitely a licker. Not that being licked was all that much better than being bitten, in Mason’s opinion. It was so … slobbery. Brody’s whole hand must be completely covered with wet, slimy, drippy dog drool.

    The dog started to stand up on his hind legs, trembling with excitement, but then he dropped back down again. His tail thumped against the bottom of the cage as if it were about to fall off from wagging.
    Then Mason saw that the dog had only three legs. He had the front leg whose paw Brody had been holding, but no other front leg.
    Brody turned to Mason’s parents, his face alightwith hope and desperation. “Can we get him? Oh, can we get him? Please? Please? Please?”
    Mason’s parents looked at Mason, their faces also lit up with the expectation that Mason would be unable to resist Brody’s pleading. He knew what