how overburdened the Humane Society was, and how the family didn't believe in capital punishment, and how that should certainly include innocent dogs as well as terrorists and murderers, and it was all right with Mom if it was all right with him—which wasn't exactly what Mom had said, but it was close.
"We'll see," Dad said, which Amy took as permission to tell Mom that Dad had said it was all right with him if it was all right with her.
But Dad just tossed the newspaper on the table by the front door without even looking at it, which kind of ruined the effect of Sherlock's having handed it to him. So Amy told Sherlock, "We'll try again later."
"When?" Sherlock asked.
"Soon," she told him.
But what happened soon was that midway through preparing dinner Mom yelled, "Help!" It sounded much more serious than when she simply needed an extra pair of hands.
Amy and Sherlock came dashing in from setting the dining-room table. Dad, who'd been halfway up the stairs to change out of his business clothes, ran back down.
In the kitchen, the water that was supposed to be going down the drain was instead pouring out of the pipe under the sink. Dad got under there in a hurry, despite the fact that he was still wearing his good clothes.
"Wrench!" he yelled.
Mom headed for the basement to get him one.
"Bucket!" he yelled.
Amy opened the broom closet.
"Paper!"
It was, Amy thought, a natural mistake.
How was an eager-to-please dog waiting for a signal to deliver the newspaper to know that Dad meant paper towels to mop up the spill?
Amy turned from the cupboard in time to see Sherlock come running, the newspaper between his teeth, and go into a skid on the wet kitchen floor. Toenails clicking on the tiles, he tried to backpedal. No use. He slid into Dad's back, Dad jumped and smacked his head on the bottom of the sink, and the two ends of pipe he had been holding together twisted, sending another gush of sudsy water onto him and the floor.
Amy put a finger to her lips because Sherlock looked so upset she was sure he was going to forget himself and apologize. Hurriedly, she apologized for him. "Sorry, sorry," she told Dad, handing him both a bucket and the roll of paper towels. She figured the apology would be appropriate whether he knew it was her dog who had run into him, or if he thought she was the one. He looked a little bit stunned and may well not have known what had hit him. She made a quick get-out-of-here motion with her hand, and Sherlock slunk out of the kitchen, head and tail drooping.
Eventually the sink was fixed, the mess cleaned up, dinner eaten.
The third time Sherlock gave Dad the newspaper—when Dad was sitting in the living room, looking exhausted—it worked. "Thanks," Dad told Sherlock, and patted him on the head.
Amy breathed a sigh of relief.
Still, she whispered to Sherlock, "Let's play outside," because she didn't want her parents to think they were underfoot. And because she didn't want Sherlock to be there when Dad tried to unstick the damp pages from each other.
Amy found a Frisbee in the garage in a box of summer stuff. "Here we go!" she called, tossing it across the front lawn.
Sherlock wasn't exactly a natural, but he did eventually get the hang of it. Then he found that sometimes he could have more fun if he didn't hand the Frisbee right back to Amy but made her chase him for it.
"Enough!" Amy finally said. "You've worn me out." She held her hand out for the Frisbee, but Sherlock wouldn't give it back. He kept running around her, still holding the Frisbee in his mouth. At first Amy laughed that he was so excited he didn't want to stop, but after a few more moments she said, "Come on, now, really. It's beginning to get dark out, and chilly."
Sherlock dropped the Frisbee, but only long enough to bark at her. When she leaned to pick it up, he snatched it away and even growled at her.
"Be like that, then," she said, and took a step toward the house. Sherlock ran into her, so that she almost
"We'll see," Dad said, which Amy took as permission to tell Mom that Dad had said it was all right with him if it was all right with her.
But Dad just tossed the newspaper on the table by the front door without even looking at it, which kind of ruined the effect of Sherlock's having handed it to him. So Amy told Sherlock, "We'll try again later."
"When?" Sherlock asked.
"Soon," she told him.
But what happened soon was that midway through preparing dinner Mom yelled, "Help!" It sounded much more serious than when she simply needed an extra pair of hands.
Amy and Sherlock came dashing in from setting the dining-room table. Dad, who'd been halfway up the stairs to change out of his business clothes, ran back down.
In the kitchen, the water that was supposed to be going down the drain was instead pouring out of the pipe under the sink. Dad got under there in a hurry, despite the fact that he was still wearing his good clothes.
"Wrench!" he yelled.
Mom headed for the basement to get him one.
"Bucket!" he yelled.
Amy opened the broom closet.
"Paper!"
It was, Amy thought, a natural mistake.
How was an eager-to-please dog waiting for a signal to deliver the newspaper to know that Dad meant paper towels to mop up the spill?
Amy turned from the cupboard in time to see Sherlock come running, the newspaper between his teeth, and go into a skid on the wet kitchen floor. Toenails clicking on the tiles, he tried to backpedal. No use. He slid into Dad's back, Dad jumped and smacked his head on the bottom of the sink, and the two ends of pipe he had been holding together twisted, sending another gush of sudsy water onto him and the floor.
Amy put a finger to her lips because Sherlock looked so upset she was sure he was going to forget himself and apologize. Hurriedly, she apologized for him. "Sorry, sorry," she told Dad, handing him both a bucket and the roll of paper towels. She figured the apology would be appropriate whether he knew it was her dog who had run into him, or if he thought she was the one. He looked a little bit stunned and may well not have known what had hit him. She made a quick get-out-of-here motion with her hand, and Sherlock slunk out of the kitchen, head and tail drooping.
Eventually the sink was fixed, the mess cleaned up, dinner eaten.
The third time Sherlock gave Dad the newspaper—when Dad was sitting in the living room, looking exhausted—it worked. "Thanks," Dad told Sherlock, and patted him on the head.
Amy breathed a sigh of relief.
Still, she whispered to Sherlock, "Let's play outside," because she didn't want her parents to think they were underfoot. And because she didn't want Sherlock to be there when Dad tried to unstick the damp pages from each other.
Amy found a Frisbee in the garage in a box of summer stuff. "Here we go!" she called, tossing it across the front lawn.
Sherlock wasn't exactly a natural, but he did eventually get the hang of it. Then he found that sometimes he could have more fun if he didn't hand the Frisbee right back to Amy but made her chase him for it.
"Enough!" Amy finally said. "You've worn me out." She held her hand out for the Frisbee, but Sherlock wouldn't give it back. He kept running around her, still holding the Frisbee in his mouth. At first Amy laughed that he was so excited he didn't want to stop, but after a few more moments she said, "Come on, now, really. It's beginning to get dark out, and chilly."
Sherlock dropped the Frisbee, but only long enough to bark at her. When she leaned to pick it up, he snatched it away and even growled at her.
"Be like that, then," she said, and took a step toward the house. Sherlock ran into her, so that she almost
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