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“Since when do you care so much about homeless animals?”
    “Whatever,” Logan mumbled. “It just seems to me that if we're going to get a dog, we should get a dog from a shelter. That way Robert can spend the six hundred bucks on buying something nice for himself. Because that's what he really wants to do, anyway. And he should. Like he always tells me, it's
his
money.”
    Mom slowed to a stop at a red light. She turned to Logan. “Robert really wants this dog, Logan,” she said. “This particular dog. A chocolate Lab.”
    “Exactly,” Logan said. “That's
exactly
my point. Robert told me that we were getting this dog to teach me 'discipline and responsibility.' But that's not true. The truth is, Robert just wants a dog like Otis. Which is fine. He can get one. But if I'm going to spend all day with a dog for the next few months, trying to train it to pee outside and stuff, then I want to get one from a shelter. It's going to be a pain. I might as well feel good about myself. I might as well save a life.”
    Mom stared at him.
    Logan took a deep breath.
Whew.
He wasn't really sure where that little speech had come from. He hardly ever said so much at one time. And yes, he
did
think that spending six hundred bucks on a dog was ridiculous and that rescuing a dog from the shelter was a noble thing to do. But deep down, he was mostly imagining the look on Robert's face when Robert came home tonight, expecting to see another Otis—and instead was greeted by the ugliest, stinkiest, mangiest mutt Logan could possibly find.
    The light turned green. Mom stepped on the gas.
    “So you're saying we should get two dogs,” she said.
    Logan shrugged. “I'm saying Robert should do whatever he wants for himself with the money. But he shouldn't try to make it seem like he's doing something for me. That's all.”
    Mom nodded.
    All of a sudden, she pulled to the side of the road.
    “What are you doing?” Logan asked.
    “I'm turning around,” she said. “Because you're right. If you're going to give this dog-training thing a real shot, then you should be able to do it with a dog you choose. We'll turn around and go back to town. I know where the shelter is.”
    “Really?” Logan asked. He was flabbergasted.
    “Really,” Mom said. She drew in a deep breath and fluttered her fingers on the steering wheel. Then she twisted in her seat so that she was facing Logan. “But if we get this dog, Logan, you have to promise me that you'll work hard every single day to train it. You have to promise me that you'll do things Robert's way for once.”
    Logan opened his mouth, then closed it.
    He had no idea how to respond. The truth was, the very thought of doing things Robert's way turned his stomach. On the other hand, it
would
keep him out of boot camp. And maybe Logan could even train the dog to be some kind of genius, like Otis was supposed to be. Only, Logan wouldn't train the dog to fetch its own leash. No … he would train it to sneak into Robert's car dealership and pee on every single BMW Robert was trying to sell—and after that, to chew through every car seat in a frenzy of madness, all the while howling:
Ahh-ooo!
    Or not. But life was full of comprises. Even Robert could appreciate that.

Rudy Stagg's faxed response to
Sheila Davis's inquiry
    June 22
    Dear Miss Davis:
    Thanks for your letter. I would have gotten back to you sooner, but I've been pretty busy.
    About this dog bug: It is definitely real, and it is bad. I'm getting a lot of calls. People want me to come shoot their dogs before the dogs attack them.
    The cases are all the same. I show up at somebody's house and the dog is lying somewhere, looking pretty much done for. At first I was waking the dogs up to see what happened, but every time it's the same thing: Faster than you can say your own name, the dog goes after whoever's closest. It could be me, it could be the owner, it could be the owner's kid.
    So I don't even try to wake the dogs up anymore. I just