Later that night, Bertie stayed curled up in the red chair in his daddy's study. He put his head on the yellow silk blanket and rubbed his beard back and forth over the smooth, soft fabric. Next to Bertie, his little toy racoon lay on its side and invited Bertie to chomp on him. Bertie did just that--chomp--squeak--chomp--squeak--chom--squeak. The toy had a little thing inside of it that made a high-pitched noise when Bertie bit it in the right place. Bertie wasn't sure what the thing was, but the noise was fun. And, as far as Bertie could tell, biting the little raccoon didn't hurt it any. Bertie stopped chomping and squeaking and held the raccoon between his paws. He licked the toy's nose. "See, no breath. No air comes out of its nose. That's how I can chomp it without hurting it."
Bertie looked at his daddy. He sat in his corner behind his dark wooden desk and was tapping his fingers on the box that opened up into a TV screen. Bertie wondered what his daddy was looking at. The box didn't usually show TV shows like the ones that Bertie watched in the afternoons before his daddy came home from work. Sometimes, it made noises, but the only thing that really ever seemed to happen on that thing were the lines of black blotches that started over and over and over again. It seemed that each time his daddy tapped on the lower part of the box, another black blotch came up on the screen. at first Bertie liked to watch the black blotched make lines and then new lines and even more lines after that. But, after a few days, that got boring and Bertie decided it was more fun to sit in the chair and chomp on his toys.
Bertie looked back and forth between his daddy and the toy raccoon. And, then he had an idea. Bertie picked the toy up in his mouth and then dropped it from the chair onto the floor. The toy hit the floor with a soft thud. Bertie looked at his daddy.
"You dropped Pete Cooney." Bertie's dad said.
Bertie looked down at the racoon on the floor.
"Woof!" Bertie barked.
"Yes, woof." Bertie's dad laughed. "You dropped your raccoon."
"Woof! Woof! Woof!" Bertie said and laughed inside himself. He knew what would happen next.
"Oh, I see," Bertie's daddy smiled. Then, he got up from behind the desk and walked over to Bertie, picking up the toy and placing it gently between Bertie's front paws.
Bertie licked his daddy's hand and rolled over so his daddy could scratch his belly.
"Just as I thought," Bertie's daddy laughed. "All right, let's scratch the belly."
Bertie opened his mouth wide and sighed. His tongue tilted off to the side and hung out of his mouth just alittle bit as his daddy scratched his belly over and over.
Bertie remembered the old woman that had fed him that night in the rain storm. She scratched his belly, too. But, not nearly as well as his daddy did.
That rainy night in the old lady's house was a nice break from running, but Bertie had known that he couldn't stay there long. She had gone off to call the phone number that she found on his nametag. Bertie didn't want to go back to the chicken farm--no way. So, he knew he had to keep running.
When the old lady came back into the kitchen where she left Bertie that night, Bertie barked and went to the door.
"Your owner," the old lady shook her head, "I called them and they said that you're a chicken chaser. They don't want you back." the old lady sighed again.
Bertie sat down and looked at her.
"I'm a good boy," Bertie thought to himself. "How is a terrier supposed to stop himself from chasing chickens when they all live in the same room?"
"Well, I can't keep you," The old lady said out loud even though she wasn't sure if Bertie understood.
He did.
"I wish I could," The old lady continued.
Bertie licked a paw and then stood up and started barking at the door again.
"You need to go out?" The old lady asked.
Bertie barked.
"Well, okay. Let me see if I can find a rope or something to use as a leash. She opened the back door and stepped aside to find some leash-like tool. Bertie took the opportunity to escape.
He ran--right out into the rain--barking his thanks over his shoulder. "Thanks for dinner, nice lady."
And, Bertie ran off into the night.
He ran for many days and nights--trying to be careful and stay away from cars.
But, the worst part was being alone.
Bertie guessed he wasn't completely alone. There were the other dogs--those other dogs that were used to be being lost--mean, bully dogs that no one really ever loved.
Bertie was scared of them. But, he was even more scared that he would turn out to be like them.
They weren't all bad. There was Nero. Nero was nice-ish.
"All right, little man," Bertie's daddy said. Bertie stopped day dreaming and looked up at his daddy who was still scratching Bertie's belly.
"Just let me finish up a bit and then it will be time for all good boys to go to bed." Bertie's dad continued.
Bertie rolled back over and put his head on his paws as if to say, "Okay, but hurry."
Bertie's dad said, "I won't be but a minute."
While Bertie watched what his daddy was doing, he thought about Nero--the big black dog that he met on the road.
"I wonder what ever happened to Nero," Bertie thought.
Come back soon for Chapter Six of Bertie’s Story...
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