Free Howl by Bark Editors

I went to pick Maeby up after her next day at the center, I was not at all prepared for what I saw.
    It was an empty chalkboard.
    No one had been proclaimed Dog of the Day yet.
    This was my—and Maeby’s—chance.
    I stood still for a moment, listening. I heard nothing, not the rustling of collars, or leashes, or barking. Everyone, it seemed, was outside on the playground.
    Maeby stole the show with her playtime skills.
    Maeby stole the show with her playtime skills.
    I took a step forward toward the front desk.
    Maeby stole the show with her playtime skills.
    Where they keep the chalk.
    I took another step. And another. And another, my steps becoming quicker as I neared the desk. And the chalk. And my dog’s redemption.
    And I saw it, a pink, slim tube of chalk, right there next to the computer keyboard. I was a step or two away from reaching over and grabbing it, because it was lying right there in the open, when I stopped.
    Maeby stole the show with her playtime skills.
    It was true. But how would Maeby feel if she knew that I stole the title of Dog of the Day and gave it to her, with her name written all over the back of it in pink chalk? I didn’t take another step. Instead, I waited there for Mandie, the center’s owner, to bring Maeby out with Hercules Wu’s leash, and then told her that Maeby would be coming in an extra day that week because I had finally made an appointment to have my terminally ill nineteen-year-old cat, Barnaby, cross over into the Kitty Light. It would be better if she spent that day shaking her milkshake on the playground at the likes of Ziggy and Blackjack, I told Mandie, than to be at our house when something sad was going to happen.
             
    And I was right; the day we sent Barnaby to a hereafter stocked with an all-you-can-eat buffet of Fancy Feast and Pounce was awfully sad, beginning with the moment we brought Maeby over to his cat bed to say good-bye to him. She nudged him gently, licked his head, sat and waited for Hercules Wu’s leash, and was off to day care.
    When I went to pick her up later that day, I couldn’t wait to see her. Although Barnaby’s passing couldn’t have gone any smoother due to our sympathetic and patient vet, it was as emotional as any experience of letting a friend of nineteen years go could be. My eyes were red and puffy when I arrived, and as I walked into the lobby, Maeby bounded in through the side door.
    “What a good girl!” I said as I scratched behind her ears and she jumped and hopped around with excitement. “I’m so happy to see you!”
    “That’s not all you should see,” Mandie said, and I looked up to see her pointing away from us.
    I looked in that direction, and that’s when I saw it. The chalkboard, on which Maeby’s name was written in pink, swirly letters.
    “You’re Dog of the Day?” I asked as she jumped and I jumped a little too, as I petted her head and she panted with excitement. “That’s wonderful! Look at that! Maeby is Dog of the Day!”
    Mandie handed over the leash and we were just about to walk out the door when I realized I still had a question and was dying for the answer.
    “So,” I said before I pushed the door all the way open. “How do you know who’s Dog of the Day? In what way do you judge who deserves it?”
    Mandie laughed. “It’s not who ‘deserves’ it,” she explained as she smiled. “It’s who needs it the most.”
    “Oh,” I said as I smiled back. “I think that’s a great way. That’s really nice. Thank you.”
    “Don’t forget her report card,” Mandie said as she pulled it from her pocket. “Maeby has two new boyfriends on the playground, you know.”
             
    [ Back from scattering birds, all dogs swagger a bit.—Dan Liebert ]

Home on the Mange
    [Neal Pollack]

    O NE NIGHT IN January, my family sat on the couch, watching television. We’d just moved to Los Angeles and we knew almost no one. A terrible freezing rainstorm had driven us inside; we