Free The Pigman's Legacy (The Sequel to The Pigman) by Paul Zindel Page B

again.
    “John, let's get out of here. We can dump the dog later,” I suggested. “The police are coming. You can let the dog out down the block.”
    “ Let the dog come with us ,” Gus demanded.
    I was really getting worried now, because I could see the headline, “Lorraine Jensen Mutilated by Mad Dog.” But I got in. John took the old man around to his side, shoved him in next to me, then got behind the wheel again. He started the engine, and we took off with the old man yelling happily, “We'll fix the IRS! We'll fix the IRS!” The very next thing he did was fall asleep. I couldn't believe how Gus could be jumping around one minute, and snoring to beat the band the next. John turned the car sharply right and then he turned it left, and the Colonel's head began to roll between us once more like it was in a Ping-Pong tournament. Then the Colonel's head crashed against my shoulder and stayed there for five minutes as we began to climb up Victory Boulevard and out of St. George. I was thankful when we had to make a sharp right and Gus' head went flying onto John's shoulder. I couldn't help watching the two of them while I massaged the circulation back into my clavicle. They made quite a picture. Even with their ages so far apart there was something very similar about the two of them. Something of destiny, perhaps. It was that their noses were alike even though Gus' nose was older than John's. Maybe it was the strong look of determination in their faces. But whatever, the position of Gus' head on John's shoulder made Gus look like a little boy resting against his father.
    It started to drizzle again and I opened up the umbrella. The dog began to whimper as though he was afraid of rain. I turned around to pet him, to reassure him that everything was all right. I was also concerned that he not get carsick. He started to lick my hand, and I rubbed his forehead. Then the dog barked, and I could just tell he wanted another piece of fudge. I reached into Gus' pocket and found the last little squashed piece. I gave it to him, and as he chewed it the expression in his eyes was that of a pooch in canine heaven.
    I was really thankful that John got us back to Howard Avenue and the garage in one piece. He shut off the motor, and Gus was still sleeping. John thought it was better to just leave him in the car for a few minutes while we pulled the trunk inside and upstairs. When we came back out we found the dog stationed at the open door of the car as though he was a guard. I petted him a few times to show how grateful I was for protecting the old guy, and John started tapping Gus on the shoulder to wake him up.
    “Gus,” he called over and over. “Come on, Gus, you're home.”
    Gus didn't budge, but every single time John called “Gus,” the dog barked and looked at us as if he expected another piece of fudge to be offered.
    “ John, I think his name is Gus .”
    The dog barked.
    “ Who ?”
    “The dog.”
    “Gus?” John asked.
    The dog barked again.
    “The dog is Gus,” I repeated. “I think the dog is the real Gus! He must have been the Colonel's dog and gotten lost when the Colonel had to clear out of the town house.”
    “Gus?” John called.
    The dog just wagged his tail and barked as though he was home again at last.

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    At first I thought Lorraine was bananas, but sure enough, every time I said “Gus” the dog would bark, and perk up, and look at me and wag his tail. At one point he ran right to my side with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. I realized of course this had to be the Colonel's dog, which is why the poor mutt was sitting in the back of the car waiting for us.
    “Do you know how to wake up the Colonel?” I asked.
    Gus barked, then jumped past me back into the car and started licking the Colonel's face. It took no more than a few seconds to revive the old man, and he woke up patting the dog on the head. “That's my boy,” the old man kept saying over and over again, “that's my