After dinner, Bertie and his dad went for a walk around the neighborhood. Bertie loved to smell all the interesting aromas on the street. Each lawn had its own scent--cats, dirt, bugs, other dogs, different kinds of flowers and grass. If he could have, Bertie would have gone up and smelled each house. All the houses on the block were old just like his own. Houses collect lots of different smells over a hundred years and Bertie wanted to smell all of them. But, Bertie’s dad didn’t let him smell all the houses. He told Bertie that it wasn’t polite to go up to another person’s house just to smell it. Bertie couldn’t quite understand why it wasn’t polite, but he believed his daddy and did as he was told.
Soon, the sky grew dark--darker than it should have been for right after dinner. Bertie looked up. Dark gray clouds rolled across the sky.
"Looks like we’re going to get some rain," Bertie’s dad said. "Let’s go home quickity quick like good boys."
"Yes," Bertie thought to himself. "I don’t like the rain."
They raced back to their own house, and as the gate clicked shut behind them, the rain started falling lightly through the big green trees that arched over the front walkway. They ran up the red-painted front steps just in time. As soon as they got onto the porch, the rain fell down harder.
There was a flash of lightening and seconds later, as his daddy was unlocking the front door, a loud clap of thunder rumbled across the yard. Bertie got as close to his daddy’s legs as he could and the moment the door was open, Bertie bolted into the house--pulling his daddy behind him.
"There now, wee man," Bertie’s daddy said as he took off Bertie’s leash and harness, "We’re home where it’s safe and dry."
"Good," Bertie thought as he shook his whole body--making his white fur puff out all around him like cotton, "I don’t want to be outside right now--not in the wet and noise."
"Come on, good boy." Bertie’s dad said as he gathered the black leather leash in his hand, "Let’s go in the kitchen where there are cookies."
Bertie wagged his tail. "Cookies," he repeated to himself.
Bertie’s dad disappeared for a few seconds into the yellow laundry room where he hung Bertie leash on the hook to the right of the door to the purple powder room. When he came back into the kitchen he said, "Good boys get cookies." Bertie’s dad smiled, "And, you’re a good boy."
Bertie sat. He knew he should sit when he got a treat. So, he sat promptly down on the wood floor and looked expectantly at his daddy. Bertie’s dad reached into the red cookie tin and quickly pulled out a dog cookie. He put it in Bertie’s mouth and said, "Good boy."
Bertie wagged his tail as he crunched on the cookie. It tasted like vegetables. Bertie liked it.
They walked together down the long hallway and went into Bertie’s dad’s study. Bertie liked that room. It was quiet and comfortable. The walls were painted the color of dark chocolate. Bertie wondered what chocolate tasted like. He was never allowed to have it.
"Come in here and sit with me," Bertie’s dad said as he turned on the old floor lamp. He patted the red armchair. Bertie quickly jumped up on the chair and lay down on his side--putting his head on the velvety beige throw pillow.
"I have to pay some bills," Bertie’s father sighed. "But, you can rest while I do. Then we’ll play."
Bertie’s dad sat down at the big dark wood desk and started shuffling papers and envelopes--muttering to himself all the while about something called, "the stupid cost of living."
Bertie watched his daddy work. He was a funny man. Bertie wondered if his dad knew he was funny.
Another loud crack of thunder ripped through the outside and Bertie sat up with a start. His dad got up from the desk and walked over to Bertie, gently smoothing the white fur between Bertie’s ears. "It’s okay, little man," Bertie’s daddy said softly, "Nothing can get you in here. You’re safe."
Bertie relaxed again, stretching out his legs before putting his head on his paws and sinking further into the red chair. "I am safe," He thought to himself.
Bertie’s father returned to his desk and began shuffling and muttering again. And, Bertie soon fell asleep.
The thunder had reminded Bertie of that other rainy night in Oklahoma, when he had been thrown in the barn. In Bertie’s dreams, he remembered being there. Bertie didn’t like it there. He hadn’t felt safe. As soon as he old master had left, Bertie quietly crept to the barn door and pushed it with his nose. It had pushed open easily.
"I’m going to get out of this place," Bertie remembered thinking at the time. "I’m not staying here any more."
As he slept, Bertie’s paws moved while he dreamed.
The rain had been hard and cold that night, too. But, Bertie didn’t care. He was leaving that barn and he didn’t mind getting wet in order to do it.
Bertie remembered walking and walking and getting wetter and muddier all the way. He was hungry and cold and tired. And, the worst part of it all was that he didn’t know where he was.
Bertie had walked along the side of the narrow road. Sometimes he saw the lights of cars. He knew people drove those cars and he knew that most people were nice. But, the cars were so fast and made such awful noises that Bertie didn’t dare go near them.
It was then that Bertie saw the lights of a house. Bertie ran to it. It was a little house and it smelled like food. Bertie remembered going to it and sitting down on the concrete patio. He barked as the rainwater rolled down his face. He barked until someone came to the door.
A lady opened the door. She was small and her hair was white like a westie’s. She smelled like flowers and food. Bertie wagged his tail when he saw her.
"Awwww, poor thing," The lady had said. She had opened the door wide enough for Bertie to come in.
He thought a moment. Should he? He had decided that he should since it was wet and cold outside.
"Are you hungry?" The woman asked Bertie.
Bertie barked.
She scooped something out of a pot and put it on the vinyl floor. Bertie wasn’t sure what it was, but it was warm and salty and he ate it.
When he had finished eating, the woman sat down on a small metal chair and looked at Bertie--reaching for the tag on his collar. "Where did you come from?" She asked him.
He wished he could answer her, but even if he could, he didn’t know where he had come from. And, he definitely knew he didn’t want to go back there.
"I’d better call them," The old woman said after studying his tag.
Bertie didn’t know what that meant. All he knew was that the woman had gotten up and walked away. Suddenly, he was all alone again in a strange place. But, at least this time he was inside. He remembered listening to the rain and thunder and waiting for the old lady to return.
Suddenly, Bertie felt a hand on his back. He quickly opened his eyes and batted at his face with his paws, yawning widely.
"Were you dreaming?" Bertie’s daddy asked him. "Your little feet were moving."
Bertie yawned again and rolled over on his side so that his daddy could scratch his belly. Bertie’s daddy understood and began to scratch. He knelt down on the floor next to Bertie. "I’m sorry if it was a bad dream," Bertie’s daddy said gently.
"It’s all right," Bertie thought to himself. "Everything’s all right now."
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