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The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes

Chapter One

I might as well admit this straight up. I am not a dog person.

Never asked for one, pleaded for one, or begged for one.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I dislike dogs or am scared of them or think the world would be a better place without them. It's just that I'm not the type of person who melts when she sees a basset hound or wants to rush over and hug any Lab she happens to cross paths with. When I see a dog, I usually don't give it a second glance.

And yet here I am, a certified non-dog lover, talking to a drooling Saint Bernard and scratching him behind his ear even though I'd much rather be inside, gulping down a can of cold grape soda. Especially after the steaming hot walk I just had coming home from school.

The dog's name is Killer. That is what my daddy decided he should be called. But he's lived with us for seven months now, and there's not a microscopic bit of meanness to be found in any of the big bones under his shaggy brown and white fur coat.

Daddy's second choice for a name wasn't any better for him: Cujo. Like the crazy dog that ripped people apart in that old movie.

A good name for him would have been something like Sweetie Pie. But I can't call him that because after all he is a boy, and he might take offense.

So I call him Beauregard.

"You like the name Beauregard, don't ya?" I ask.

His tail thumps dirt, kicking up dust as a response.

"Everyone should like their name. I like mine okay. Charlotte Hayes. Could be worse, I guess."

More tail thumping.

Having the name Killer is the least of this dog'sproblems, though. Unfortunately all his problems have somehow become my problems. I just wish I knew what to do about it.

Beauregard collapses to the ground, legs straight up, giant paws dangling in the air.

He's asking for a belly rub.

The white of his belly is covered with brown. He's been lying in dirt where the grass has been worn away. I really don't want a coating of dirt on my hands.

He stares up at me, pleading from his upside-down position. I look away and notice his water bowl is empty. It's been in the upper eighties today, and Beauregard has to be terribly thirsty, so I ignore his plea for a belly rub and pick up the empty bowl instead. I march over to the outside spigot and fill it to the brim. Sploshing water until my sneakers squish, I carry the bowl back and set it down. Beauregard jumps up and makes a nosedive into it, lapping water like crazy.

Even though it's technically the first week of fall, it feels more like the middle of summer here in Greater Oaks, West Virginia. I put my hands on top of my head, hoping to catch a faint breeze. My orange hair feels like an electric stovetop burner twisted all the way to high.

Beauregard pauses from his frantic drinking long enough to drool and give me a melancholy stare. Saint Bernards always look a bit sad with their droopy eyes and saggy mouths, but I know he'd at least look a little happier if I could bring him inside with me. He's been an outside dog since we've had him, but for the past four months he hasn't even had a moment's break from his chain.

Beauregard, finished with his water, rolls onto his back once more and lets out a whimper. I was hoping he'd forget about that belly rub. He whimpers again and sounds so pitiful that I go ahead and kneel beside him and begin stroking his dirty fur. I swish a few gnats away with my free hand.

"Life's not fair, is it, boy?" I ask.

He groans and flops from his back to his side and begins panting.

Life's not fair for Beauregard. It's not fair for me either. 'Cause I'm the one stuck taking care of him.