"Well, he does look a whole lot better," I admitted.

"He is kind of a working dog, you know. He caught a rat the other day. Will you take a look at these sore spots on his flank? I've been washing them with soap and water, but they still won't heal over." Travis grasped his collar. "Good boy, Scruffy. You'll be all right."

I looked at one of the open wounds and gently separated the edges with my fingers. Scruffy whined a little but that was all. The wound itself was not wide but looked chronic. I wished I had one of Dr. Pritzker's probes with me to check on its depth. I patted Scruffy, and he licked my hand again, bearing me no grudge for causing him discomfort. A good dog.

Travis said, "It doesn't look very big, so why doesn't it heal?"

"It's not very big at the surface but I think it's deep. There's something down in there that's stopping it from healing, probably a shotgun pellet."

He frowned. "Can you fix it?"

"It's an actual operation. First you have to dig out the foreign body that's in there, then you have to sc.r.a.pe out the tract or cauterize it with a hot iron so the flesh heals properly."

"But can you do it?" he said anxiously.

"I could give the anesthetic, but Dr. Pritzker would have to do the surgery," I said.

"So will you ask him? I bet if you ask him, he'll do it. Tell him I can pay him out of my allowance. Mother will like Scruffy a lot better if he doesn't have any sores."

"All right, I'll talk to him about it." I looked at Scruffy critically. "And after he's healed, I think we should give him a bath with some of the fancy soap that Mother brings out when we have guests. That would improve him some too."

"That's a great idea," said Travis, grinning at me in admiration.

"And I think we should trim some of that fur around his ruff. Maybe trim his tail so it's not so bushy. I can do it with the scissors. That will neaten him up some."

"Okay, great!" Travis beamed his very best smile at me, the truly irresistible one, the one that caused friends and strangers alike to cave in to his entreaties, including the ones that inevitably led to trouble.

"Then we could make a bow out of one of my hair ribbons," I said, "to make him look cuter." It was going to take a whole lot more than that, I thought, but I kept this to myself.

"See?" Travis said, ruffling Scruffy's fur. "He's going to make a really good pet."

Travis crouched down and put his arms around Scruffy, leaning his head against the warm fur. They looked so happy together, the boy and his dog who, while not the best-looking dog in the world, made a really good pet. I hoped that Mother and Father could look past the pedigree and the appearance to see what I saw, that Travis had finally found the right pet.

"When are you going to talk to Dr. Pritzker? It needs to be soon. We don't have a whole lot of time. We're supposed to look at the puppies on Sat.u.r.day. If we end up getting one, there might not be a place for Scruffy."

"All right. I'll ask him tomorrow afternoon."

But before tomorrow afternoon came, unlucky fate struck, and it struck in the unlikely form of Viola.

We were finishing breakfast when we heard a m.u.f.fled boom from the back of the property.

"What was that?" said Mother.

"Sounds like the twenty gauge," said Father. The shotgun was kept on a hook on the back porch for varmint control.

A minute later, Viola came into the dining room. "Shot a coyote, Mr. Tate, in the weeds between the corncrib and the henhouse. Maybe sick, from the way it was limping."

Travis and I stared at each other, horrified disbelief dawning between us. He leaped up, knocking over his chair, and sprinted from the room. I jumped up in hot pursuit, ignoring the confused cries and general hubbub in the dining room. I pelted out the back door at top speed behind him, yelling, "Maybe it's not him! Maybe it's really a coyote!"

We reached the corncrib and followed a b.l.o.o.d.y trail through the tall weeds. All I could think was, It's too much blood, there's too much blood. And there on the ground lay the "coyote." Only, of course, it was not a coyote. But it was alive. Panting and whimpering, but alive.

"No!" Travis cried in anguish, staggering at the sight of blood on Scruffy's hindquarters.

Oh, Travis, not now, I prayed. Don't go all wobbly on me now. "Don't look at the blood. Get the wheelbarrow and hurry."

He turned away and ran to the garden shed. I ran to the barn and grabbed a saddle blanket.

By the time we met back at Scruffy, Father and Harry and Lamar had arrived and were shouting confused questions and orders at us: "That doesn't look like a coyote." "Why does it have a collar?" "Don't touch it-it's probably rabid." "Where's the shotgun? I'll put it out of its misery."

"No, you can't," I cried. "It's Travis's dog." I put the blanket over Scruffy to keep him warm and to hide the blood.

"Travis doesn't have a dog," Father said.

"Yes, I do," Travis said through his tears. Now that he didn't have to look at the blood, fort.i.tude returned to his frame.

"Yes, he does," I said. "Help me lift him into the wheelbarrow. We have to take him to Dr. Pritzker."

"That thing?" said Lamar. "It's only a mongrel. Father, shall I get the shotgun?"

"His name is Scruffy," Travis cried.

They stared at us in confusion. Scruffy whined from under his blanket.

Father grumbled something about a man not knowing what was going on under his own roof, and disobedient sons, and too many animals, and no more pets. He looked deeply troubled, but I could not tell if it was due to Travis's sobbing or Scruffy's yelping. Surely the mangled dog reminded him of Ajax, and just as surely, it reminded him of Travis's long string of terrible pets.

Lamar said, "That thing's not worth saving. Heck, it's barely worth shooting." He and Father turned and headed back to the house. Were they heading for the gun? Or for help? I thought I knew the answer but there was no time to dwell on it.

"Help me," I said to Travis and Harry, but Harry only held up his hands and backed away.

No help there. I reached slowly for Scruffy's collar because you never knew what a dog in pain-even the best-behaved dog in the world-would do. But he did not snap, only yelped as Travis and I lifted him into the wheelbarrow. A b.l.o.o.d.y hind leg slipped out. Travis reeled and squeezed his eyes shut, and I quickly adjusted the blanket to hide it.

"Good boy," I said, whether to Travis or Scruffy I wasn't sure. "You can look now. Hurry, before Father gets back." We each took a handle and pushed off toward the drive. Harry, who hadn't said a word, watched us go. He wasn't going to help but he wasn't going to hinder us, either. Perhaps that was the best we could hope for under the circ.u.mstances, but still, the part of me that had always been his pet knew I would not forget this moment.

It was tough going in the gravel drive, the front wheel foundering in a slow-motion nightmare. Travis checked his blubbing and saved his breath for the hard work at hand. When we made the street, he fell and we almost dumped the wheelbarrow over. He got up with skinned hands and knees without a word of pain, grabbed his handle, and we were off again, breaking into a clumsy trot and pushing our burden for all we were worth. No noise issued from under the blanket. I pushed grimly and could only think, What if Dr. Pritzker's not there, what if he's out on a call, what if he's not there?

We rounded the corner with our makeshift ambulance right as the doctor was unlocking his door. Relief flooded my heart as never before. He looked at us in surprise as we raced up.

"We need your help," I wheezed. "Our dog's been shot. It was a mistake. Viola thought it was a coyote."

"It's not a coyote, it's our Scruffy," Travis gasped.

"Bring him in, bring him in," Dr. Pritzker said, holding the door for us. But the wheelbarrow was too wide to fit through, so Travis and I had to lift him from the barrow. The blanket fell off as we carried him to the table. Blood dripped on the floor. But Travis did it. He did what needed to be done. We managed to arrange Scruffy on the table, and then he said, "I think ... I think I'll just sit down for a little bit." He plopped down in a chair and dropped his head between his knees.

Dr. Pritzker gave him a funny look and said to me, "Is he all right?"

"He's, uh ... yeah. I'll explain later. Can you save this dog?"

Dr. Pritzker frowned at the patient, who was panting at a frightening rate.

"What was he shot with?" he said.

"Twenty gauge," I said, "birdshot."

"Good," he said, "better than buckshot."

Travis surfaced long enough to mumble, "You can save him, right?"

Feeling oddly calm, I said, "I'll get the anesthetic." Now that we were there, now that I knew help to be at hand, and now that I had a part to play in providing that help, most of my fear subsided.

"Muzzle first," Dr. Pritzker said. I helped him buckle on a leather muzzle. Scruffy made no protest.

"He's never bitten anyone," Travis said, head still down.

"Doesn't matter. All injured dogs get a muzzle. One of my rules of practice. Ready with the chloroform?"

I slipped the cone over the muzzle and applied the anesthetic. Scruffy's eyelids sagged, and his breathing slowed. Dr. Pritzker slowly explored the matted, b.l.o.o.d.y fur on his hindquarter and grunted.

"What's wrong?" said Travis, quickly looking up and just as quickly averting his gaze.

"Nothing wrong with the hip. But part of the lower leg is shattered. He'll probably never walk on it again."

"But you can save him, right?" Travis said.

Dr. Pritzker frowned. "I may have to amputate at the stifle-that's the knee-but that's no kind of life for him. He's not a purebred so he's not worth anything. Besides, who wants a three-legged dog?"

"I do," said Travis. "I want him."

"Me too," I said in unity with my brother. I unrolled the instrument pack, readied the sutures, and waited for Dr. Pritzker.

He looked at the two of us. After a moment he sighed, "All right."

He probed and sewed and debrided, and extracted chips of bone before saying, "Well, I'll be. The popliteal artery is intact. Talk about good luck. Maybe I can save the leg, but I make no guarantees, understood?"

"Yessir," Travis mumbled.

Dr. Pritzker had just finished sewing up the fascia when Father and Harry came through the door.

"Ah, Alfred," Dr. Pritzker said, "I'm just closing up here. I'll be done shortly. Step carefully, there's blood everywhere."

Travis moaned.

"Oh," added Dr. Pritzker, "and you might take your boy outside. He's looking a little green around the gills."

Father harrumphed, but he and Harry each took an arm and led Travis to the bench outside.

I could hear Travis taking deep breaths. Father gave him a moment and then said, "Young man, what's the meaning of all this? Out with it."

Travis explained the story of Scruffy, haltingly at first, then picking up steam. About how he was part terrier and part coyote, and how the dogs didn't want him, and the coyotes almost killed him, and how Mr. Holloway tried to drown him, and how Mr. Gates and now Viola had shot him, and that he, Travis, was his only friend in the world and would not let him down now.

Father said, "It's half coyote? No, no, we can't have a creature like that about the place. It's just not safe. Look, my boy, I've decided to take one of Priscilla's new pups and turn it into a hunting dog. They're seven weeks old and ready to wean. You can pick out one for yourself and raise it as your very own dog. You can even have the pick of the litter."

Travis grew louder and more vociferous. "I don't need a puppy. I already have a dog, and his name is Scruffy. He's the only one I want."

He continued to argue his case. I regretted that I wasn't out there to help him, but I was too busy handing the doctor bandages. Poor old Scruffy, lying there in a pool of blood. He didn't look much like a dog, or a coyote, or a coydog. He didn't look like much of anything except a b.l.o.o.d.y mess. But he was still breathing.

We applied a dressing to the leg and then I remembered his other old wounds.

"Dr. Pritzker, there's an old fistula here. Would you take a look at it? Since he's under? I'll pay."

"Calpurnia Virginia Tate," he sighed, "you don't have to pay me."

I handed him a probe, and he dug around for a minute before triumphantly extracting a deformed slug of metal half the size of my little fingernail. Then another. And another.

"Look at that," he said. "He's been shot before, and more than once. He's a tough little sc.r.a.pper, and a lucky dog to boot. Maybe you should call him Lucky instead."

"No," I said, "he has a name. His name is Scruffy."

FATHER REMAINED UNHAPPY about the situation for some time. Travis was allowed to keep his pet, but it had to live at the gin, and he was under strict instructions not to bring it home. Travis washed him and brushed him and taught him how to fetch and shake a paw.

After the wounds healed, we took turns walking him and exercising him a little more each day. The muscles around his good hip grew strong in compensation, and he developed a comic hitching gait that served him well. He got to the point where he could run like blazes, at least over the short distance.

Then came the day when he caught a rat at the gin and fortuitously delivered it to the loading dock, where Father happened to be smoking a cigar. Scruffy laid the dead rat at his feet and looked up expectantly at Father, who looked at it in surprise. He puffed his cigar and appeared thoughtful, probably thinking about how the rats plagued his business. Then he bent down and patted the reddish-brownish head, saying, "Good dog."

And just like that, Scruffy transformed himself from an outcast coydog to an extremely valuable working dog. Father himself brought him home that night, where he settled in on the front porch so quickly you'd have thought he always lived there. And from the porch, he and Travis initiated their stealthy joint campaign to turn him from an Outside Dog into an Inside Dog and eventually even an On The Bed Dog, previously unheard of in our house.

So Scruffy became part of the Tate family pack. Travis had finally found the right pet.

That was the happy ending to the story of Scruffy, one of the most exciting things to happen in our house that year. We couldn't know that yet more excitement lay ahead.

CHAPTER 25.

A PUFFER FISH OF ONE'S OWN [I]f your view is limited to a small s.p.a.ce, many objects possess beauty.

ONE EVENING OVER DINNER, Mother smiled and said, "Tomorrow is Aggie's eighteenth birthday. Tomorrow, she becomes a real adult."

Did Aggie blush a little? I think she did.

"I suppose," Mother went on, "we shall have to get used to calling you Agatha, since you'll be a proper young lady."

"Oh no, Aunt Margaret, I've been called Aggie my whole life, and I'm used to it."