Free Wish by Barbara O'Connor Page B

waited.
    â€œThey love you no matter what.” Bertha smiled down at Wishbone. “Shoot, I know folks who are cranky or stuck up or bold-faced liars and their dogs love ’em like they’re saints or something. Know what I mean?”
    Gus nodded and said, “Yep.”
    â€œI hate to admit it,” Bertha went on, “but I bet half these cats of mine would run off and never look back if somebody came along with a can of sardines.”
    I leaned down and ran my hand down Wishbone’s side. His fur was soft and warm and he snored real soft while he slept. Then I gazed up at the starry sky and had a feeling I hadn’t had in a long time. Thankful. I felt thankful that I had my very own dog who would love me no matter what.
    When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I did was look for Wishbone to make sure I hadn’t just dreamed he was mine. Sure enough, there he was, curled up on the floor beside me. I’d put one of my pillows there for him and he hadn’t wasted one minute flopping down on it.
    I spent the morning bathing him and combing him and picking burrs out of his tail and ticks off of his ears. I knew he didn’t like it much but he let me do it. When I was done, he looked so handsome and smelled so good that Bertha kept making a fuss over him and running back into the house to get him another chicken liver. He was so skinny you could count his ribs right through his fur.
    â€œWe need to fatten him up,” Bertha said.
    After lunch, I practiced walking him with the rope tied to his collar. At first, he’d made it clear that he didn’t like it. He’d jerk his head this way and that or sit down and refuse to budge. But I kept a plastic bag full of tiny pieces of cheese and bacon and stuff to lure him along, and after a while, he was trotting right beside me. Around the yard. Through the garden. Up the driveway and back.
    I let him take a nap tied up in the shade of the big oak tree on the steep slope by the back porch. Bertha brought a tablecloth outside and spread it on the ground next to him. Then the two of us had pimiento cheese sandwiches and sweet tea for lunch. Bertha told me a story about some old man named Cooter who used to be the mayor of Colby.
    â€œHe carried a gun,” she said. “And if anybody parked in front of Town Hall where they weren’t supposed to, he’d shoot their tires out.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œReally. And his wife used to wash her underpants and hang ’em on the antenna of her car and then drive around town till they were dry.”
    I wrinkled my nose and said, “Eww.”
    Bertha laughed. “I know! That big ole underwear looked like the national flag of the Land of Big Behinds flapping in the breeze like that.”
    Me and Bertha had a good laugh over that. Every now and then, Wishbone’s feet jerked and he let out a little yip while he slept. I wondered if he was dreaming about running free again without a rope tied to him. I hoped not.
    I took a gulp of sweet tea and watched the honeybees flitting over the clover beside us.
    Clover! Maybe I could find a four-leaf clover. So while Bertha told me about how Cooter and his wife bought a gold mine in Nevada and moved away, I searched and searched. Sure enough, I found one. But I didn’t pick it. If you pick it, it will bring you good luck, but if you leave it growing there, you can make a wish, which is exactly what I did.
    After lunch I decided I wasn’t mad at Howard anymore, so I tied Wishbone’s rope-leash to the handlebars of Lenny’s bike and pedaled down the road to the Odoms’. Wishbone seemed to love that, racing along beside me with his ears flapping and his tongue hanging out.
    When I got to Howard’s, he and Dwight and Cotton were in the front yard playing some game that involved throwing tin cans and punching each other.
    â€œHey, y’all!” I called. “Look what I got!”
    They raced