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can finish our shirts later.”
    Mindy fixed her eyes on me. “Joe, do you want to go with us?” she asked in a
sweet voice. “Whoops. I forgot. You’re grounded.” Then she burst out laughing.
    I turned and left the two girls in the den. I have to get out of this house,
I thought.
    I headed for the kitchen. Mom and the painter huddled together at the
counter, checking paint swatches.
    “We want the onyx black for the trim. Not the pitch black,” she instructed,
tapping the swatches. “I think you brought the wrong paint.”
    I tugged on her sleeve. “Mom. Buster’s really bored. Can I take him for a
walk?”
    “Of course not,” she replied quickly. “You’re grounded.”
    “Please,” I begged. “Buster needs a walk. And that paint smell is making me
sick.” I held my stomach and made gagging sounds.
    The painter shifted impatiently from foot to foot. “Okay, okay,” Mom said.
“Take the dog.”
    “Excellent! Thanks, Mom!” I cried. I darted through the kitchen and into the
back yard. “Good news, Buster,” I exclaimed. “We’re free!”
    Buster wagged his stumpy tail. I untied the long rope and clipped a short
leash to his collar.
    We walked about two miles. All the way down to Buttermilk Pond. That’s our
favorite stick-chasing spot.
    I tossed a fat stick into the water. Buster plunged into the cold pond and
fetched it. We did that over and over until it was three o’clock. Time to go
home.
    On the way back to the house, we stopped at the Creamy Cow. They have the
best ice cream in town.
    I used the last bit of my allowance to treat us both to double-dip
chocolate-chip cookie dough cones. Buster liked the cookie dough, but he left
all the chocolate chips on the ground.
    After we finished our ice cream, we continued home. Buster pulled at his
leash excitedly as we strolled up the driveway. He seemed really happy to be
back.
    He dragged me into the front yard and sniffed everything. The evergreen
bushes. The flamingos. The deer. The gnomes.
    The gnomes.
    Was something different about the gnomes?
    I dropped Buster’s leash and bent down for a closer look.
    I studied their fat little hands. What were those dark smudges on their
fingertips. Dirt?
    I rubbed their chubby fingers. But the smudges remained.
    No. Not dirt.
    I leaned in closer.
    Paint. Black paint.

 
 
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    Black paint. The same color as the smiley faces on Mr. McCall’s casabas!
    I swallowed hard. What’s going on here? I wondered. How could the gnomes’
hands be covered in paint?
    I’ve got to show someone, I decided.
    Mom! She’s in the house. She’ll help me figure this out.
    As I reached our front door, I heard a scraping sound coming from the
McCalls’ yard.
    “Buster! No!” I shouted.
    Buster circled Mr. McCall’s vegetable patch, his leash dragging behind him.
    I quickly shoved my hand under my T-shirt and yanked out my dog whistle. I
blew it hard.
    Buster trotted right back to me.
    “Good boy!” I cried in relief. I shook my finger in his face. I tried to be
stern. “Buster, if you don’t want to be tied up, you have to stay out of that
garden!”
    Buster licked my finger with his long, sticky tongue. Then he turned to lick
the gnomes.
    I watched Buster slobber all over them.
    “Oh, no!” I cried. “Not again!”
    Chip’s and Hap’s mouths gaped wide open. In the same terrified expressions I
had seen before. As if they were trying to scream.
    I slammed my eyes shut. I opened one slowly.
    The terrified expressions remained.
    What was going on here? Were the gnomes afraid of Buster? Was I going crazy?
    My hands trembled as I quickly tied Buster to the tree. Then I ran into the
house to search for Mom.
    “Mom! Mom!” I panted breathlessly. I found her upstairs, working in her
office. “You’ve got to come outside! Now!”
    Mom whirled around from her computer. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.
    “It’s the gnomes!” I cried. “There’s black paint on their hands. And