Ann Martin: Kristy And The Snobs

"Hi," we replied.

We really like Dr. Smith. She's an older woman with graying hair and bifocals who's wonderful with animals. She talks to them in a soft, soothing voice. I've never heard her raise it, not even the time Louie panicked and

knocked over a box of sterile bandages.

"Well, what's wrong with Louie today?" asked the doctor.

David Michael spoke up. "We're not sure. Yesterday I thought he was limping, but it's hard to tell."

"He just lies around," I added. "And last night he walked right into a table when he was aiming for me."

"But his appetite is fine," said Charlie. "He always eats his meals."

"Well, let's have a look." Dr. Smith examined Louie carefully. She poked him and stroked him, listened to his heart, looked in his eyes and ears, and watched him try to walk. She frowned as Louie lumbered stiffly into the door jamb. Then she examined his eyes again and sort of massaged his legs.

When she was finished, she looked at us gravely.

"What is it?" I asked, suddenly feeling afraid. Awful thoughts began to run through my mind. The worst was, Louie has cancer.

But what Dr. Smith said was, "Louie is getting old."

My brothers and I nodded.

"And just like some old people, his body is beginning to slow down. He's developing arthritis and his eyesight is poor."

Is that all? I thought. Arthritis and poor eyesight? It didn't sound too bad.

"Can dogs get contact lenses?" asked David Michael seriously.

Dr. Smith smiled. "I'm afraid not, honey."

I wondered why she still looked so solemn.

"What can we do for him?" asked Charlie.

"Well, he's probably in a fair amount of pain. I can give you some pills to ease it, but they won't cure the arthritis, and the arthritis is probably going to get worse. His eyes may, too."

Now I understood. Louie was in pain. There wasn't much we could do for him and he wasn't going to get better. It wasn't as if he had a cold or an injury. I looked down at him. He had settled onto the floor of the examining room. It must be scary, I thought, not to see well and to know that you're in a strange place. No wonder Louie had walked into the side of the door.

I realized that Dr. Smith was talking again. "Please tell your mother to call me anytime if she has questions. We can strengthen the dosage of the pills if Louie seems to be worse, but I don't want to do that yet. I have a feeling Louie's got a tough road ahead of him."

David Michael was sitting on the floor, talking to Louie. I was glad he wasn't paying at-

tention. I couldn't speak to the doctor because a lump had formed in my throat. But Charlie took over.

"We'll tell Mom/' he said. "Is there anything else we can do for Louie?"

"Stairs will be difficult/' replied Dr. Smith, "so keep his food and water on the level of the house where he spends the most time. Carry him up and down stairs if you can. But he will need a little exercise. Short, slow walks. Let him go at his own pace."

Charlie and I nodded.

"Can we leave now?" asked David Michael impatiently, and Dr. Smith laughed.

"Had enough of the doctor's office?" she asked.

"Louie has."

Dr. Smith handed a packet of pills to Charlie and explained when to give them to Louie. Then we left. Charlie and I looked as if we were on our way to a funeral. But David Michael walked Louie jauntily to the car, singing a song that he made up as he went along.

"Oh, you're going home, Louie, and you're fi-i-i-ine," he said. "No shots, no stitches, no treatment. You don't even have to spend the ni-i-i-ight."

Charlie and I glanced at each other. Obviously David Michael didn't understand that

Louie was in bad shape. All he knew was that the doctor had sent him home with some pills. How sick could he be? Pills always made David Michael better.

I felt awful by the time we reached our house. "I think I'll take Louie for a walk," I told my brothers. "A slow one, like Dr. Smith suggested." I was hoping it would calm me down.

Charlie must have guessed how I was feeling because when David Michael said, "I'll come with you!" Charlie said, "Why don't you come with me instead, kiddo? We can give your new football a workout."

I flashed Charlie a grateful smile, and Louie and I started slowly down the drive to the shady street. I remembered the day us Thomases moved into Watson's house. The morning before, we had really spruced Louie up because we'd wanted him to look his best when he came to this neighborhood, where (I was sure) all the dogs were purebred, pedigreed, and groomed at doggie parlors.

Well, that was several months ago. Since I hadn't met many of the people around here, I hadn't met many of their dogs, either. I had no idea what they were like. No question about it, though, Louie was not at his best as we plodded down the street. His head was hanging (Was he trying to see the ground better?),

he moved stiffly, his fur was all ruffled from the examination, and he smelled of the vet.

So wouldn't you just know that I'd run into that curly-haired blonde girl I'd seen at the bus stop the day before? She was flouncing down the street toward me, a leash in her hand. At the end of the leash was an absolutely gorgeous dog. It looked something like a heavy golden retriever with the markings of a Saint Bernard. And with the girl and the dog was a littler blonde, holding a spotless white Persian cat in her arms.

Our eyes met, the sidewalk was narrow, there was no way the girls and I could avoid each other.

They stopped a couple of yards away from me, and the big snob girl flipped her hair over her shoulder, and put her hand on her hip.

"What," she said, pointing to Louie, "is that?"

"That," I replied, "is a dog."

The girl made a face at me. "Really? It's hard to tell. He's so ... scruffy."

"Yeah, he's icky!" cried the younger one.

"He's old," I said defensively. "And he has arthritis."

The older girl softened just a smidge. "Whaf s his name?" she asked.

"Louie,"

"Oh. This is Astrid. Astrid of Grenville. A pedigreed Bernese mountain dog."

"And this is Priscilla. She's purebred. She cost four hundred dollars," said the little kid.

"Hoo," I replied, trying to sound like British royalty. I had to admit, though, that next to Astrid and Priscilla, Louie looked like a scruffy old orphan dog.

"Well," said the older girl. "I guess you should know that I'm Shannon Louisa Kilbourne. I live over there." She pointed to a house that was across the street, next door to the Papadakises. "And this is Amanda Delaney. She lives next door to me."

"But Priscilla and I have to go home now. So 'bye!" the little girl called gaily, and ran off.

"Well, I'm Kristy Thomas," I told Shannon. "You know where I live."

"In Mr. Brewer's house," she answered, clearly implying that I was not good enough to be a Brewer, just lucky enough to live with one. "Pew," she went on, "your dog smells. Where's he been? In a swamp?"

"Personally," I replied, ignoring her question, "I would rather live in a swamp than across the street from you."

"Oh, yeah? Well, you're only proving what

a jerk you are," retorted Shannon. "And you're only proving what a snob you

are."

"Jerk." "Snob."

Shannon stuck her tongue out at me, I stuck mine out at her, and we walked on.

Chapter 4.

Linny and Hannie Papadakis are neat little kids. They love to "play pretend" and to organize activities for the other neighborhood kids. And their little sister, Sari, is very sweet. All of the kids have dark hair, deep brown eyes, olive skin, and really terrific smiles.

On the afternoon that I was to baby-sit for them, Linny and Hannie were waiting for me in the front yard.

"Hi!" called Hannie, jumping up as soon as she saw me coming.

"Hi, you guys," I said.