Free How to Steal a Dog by Barbara O'Connor Page B

okay?”
    Me and Toby followed her up the walk to the house. At the door, she turned and said, “My name’s Carmella, by the way—Carmella Whitmore.”
    â€œI’m Georgina,” I said. “That’s my brother, Toby.”
    â€œI’ll be right back,” she said, then disappeared into the darkness of the house.
    I pushed my face against the screen and peered inside. My stomach did a flip-flop. I pressed my face closer to the screen to make sure I was seeing right. I was. The inside of that house wasn’t one little bit like I’d imagined it would be. Ever since I’d first laid eyes on 27 Whitmore
Road, I’d pictured rooms with glittering crystal chandeliers and fancy furniture. I’d imagined a thick, silky carpet covered with roses. And paintings on the walls. Those fancy kind with swirly gold frames like in museums. I’d even pictured a servant lady bringing in tea and cookies on a silver tray.
    But what I saw when I peered through that door was a dark and dreary room filled to bursting with all kinds of junky stuff. Piles of newspapers and clothes, boxes and dishes. No chandeliers. No fancy furniture.
    Carmella came out of a back room carrying a small silver picture frame.
    â€œHere’s Willy,” she said, joining me and Toby on the porch and handing me the picture.
    There was Willy, looking out at me from that silver frame, smiling his doggie smile.
    â€œHe sure is cute,” I made myself say, but my voice came out real quiet and shaky.
    Carmella nodded and wiped at tears. “He’s the cutest dog you ever saw,” she said. “And smart? Talk about smart!”
    She smiled down at the picture in my hand. “He can count. Can you believe that?”
    â€œReally?” Toby said.
    Carmella nodded. “Really. With his little paw. Like this.” She pawed the air with her hand.
    â€œMaybe he got lost,” Toby said.
    Carmella shook her head. “Maybe. But it’s just so
unlike him. He knows this neighborhood real good. And everybody knows him.” She took the picture from me and dropped into a rocking chair.
    â€œI can’t figure out how that front gate got open,” she said.
    â€œMaybe the paperboy or something,” I said.
    â€œNaw, he just flings it up here on the porch.” She looked out at the street. “I’ve driven everywhere I can think of. I called the animal control officer. I talked to all my neighbors. I just don’t know what else to do.” Then she started crying real hard again, and I had to look down at my feet. I could feel Toby fidgeting beside me.
    â€œWhy don’t you put up some signs?” I said.
    Carmella looked up. “Signs?”
    â€œYeah, you know, lost-dog signs.”
    â€œWell, stupid me,” she said. “Of course I should put up some signs.”
    â€œMe and Toby can help,” I said. “Right, Toby?”
    â€œRight.” Toby grinned at Carmella.
    â€œThat would be great,” she said, pushing herself out of the rocking chair with a grunt. “Y’all want to come inside?”
    Toby looked at me with wide eyes. We weren’t supposed to go in anybody’s house unless we knew them real good. But Carmella seemed okay to me.
    â€œSure,” I said. “Come on, Toby.” I pulled on Toby’s T-shirt.
    When we got inside, I looked around to see if
Carmella’s house was really as bad as it had looked from out on the porch. It was. A big lumpy couch covered with a bedspread and piled with clothes and newspapers. A coffee table littered with soda cans and dirty dishes. A card table with a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. Shelves built into the wall were jammed with ratty-looking books, piles of papers, an empty fish tank, and a bowling trophy. Instead of the rose-covered carpet I had pictured, the wooden floors were bare and worn. And nearly everywhere I looked there was a dog toy, all chewed up and loved. That