Free Every Living Thing by Cynthia Rylant Page B

of meeting children at the schoolhouse door), and she enjoyed big breakfasts. Each day MissCutcheon would creak out of her bed like a mummy rising from its tomb, then shuffle into the kitchen, straight for the coffee pot. Velma, who slept on the floor at the end of Miss Cutcheon’s bed, would soon creak off the floor herself and head into the kitchen. Velma’s family had eaten cold cereal breakfasts all those years, and only when she came to live with Miss Cutcheon did Velma realize what perking coffee, sizzling bacon and hot biscuits smell like. She still got only dry dog food, but the aromas around her nose made the chunks taste ten times better.
    Miss Cutcheon sat at her dinette table, eating her bacon and eggs and biscuits, sipping her coffee, while Velma lay under the table at her feet. Miss Cutcheon spent most of breakfast time thinking about all the children she had taught. Velma thought about hers.
    During the day Miss Cutcheon took Velma for walks up and down the block. The two of them became a familiar sight. On warm, sunny days they took many walks, moving at an almost brisk pace up and back. But on damp, cold days they eased themselves along the sidewalk as if they’d both just gotten out ofbed, and they usually went only a half-block, morning and afternoon.
    Miss Cutcheon and Velma spent several months together like this: eating breakfast together, walking the block, sitting on the front porch, going to bed early. Velma’s memory of her three children grew fuzzy, and only when she saw a boy or girl passing on the street did her ears prick up as if she
should
have known something about children. But what it was she had forgotten.
    Miss Cutcheon’s memory, on the other hand, grew better every day, and she seemed not to know anything except the past. She could recite the names of children in her mind—which seats they had sat in, what subjects they were best at, what they’d brought to school for lunch. She could remember their funny ways, and sometimes she would be sitting at her dinette in the morning, quietly eating, when she would burst out with a laugh that filled the room and made Velma jump.
    Why Miss Cutcheon decided one day to walk Velma a few blocks farther, and to the west, is a puzzle. But one warm morning in September, they did walk that way, and when theyreached the third block, a sound like a million tiny buzz saws floated into the air. Velma’s ears stood straight up, and Miss Cutcheon stopped and considered. Then they went a block farther, and the sound changed to something like a hundred bells pealing. Velma’s tail began to wag ever so slightly. Finally, in the fifth block, they saw the school playground.
    Children, small and large, ran wildly about, screaming, laughing, falling down, climbing up, jumping, dancing. Velma started barking, again and again and again. She couldn’t contain herself. She barked and wagged and forgot all about Miss Cutcheon standing there with her. She saw only the children and it made her happy.
    Miss Cutcheon stood very stiff a while, staring. She didn’t smile. She simply looked at the playground, the red brick school, the chain-link fence that protected it all, keeping intruders outside, keeping children inside. Miss Cutcheon just stared while Velma barked. Then they walked back home.
    But the next day they returned. They moved farther along the fence, nearer where the children were. Velma barked and wagged until two boys, who had been seesawing, ran overto the fence to try to pet the dog. Miss Cutcheon pulled back on the leash, but too late, for Velma had already leaped up against the wire. She poked her snout through a hole and the boys scratched it, laughing as she licked their fingers. More children came to the fence, and while some rubbed Velma’s nose, others questioned Miss Cutcheon: “What’s your dog’s name?” “Will it bite?” “Do you like cats?” Miss Cutcheon, who had not