Roxbury Park Dog Club #2: When the Going Gets Ruff

Dedication

To Laura

Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Excerpt from Roxbury Park Dog Club #3: Top Dog

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About the Author

Books by Daphne Maple

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

I just heard about the greatest pet, I said to my mom. We were sitting in the breakfast nook of our sunny kitchen eating English muffins; it was the perfect time to reveal my latest plan to convince my mom we needed a pet.

Mom was taking a long sip of coffee but she looked at me over the rim of her mug and raised her eyebrows, waiting for me to go on.

I took a deep breath. A de-scented skunk, I announced.

My mom made a sputtering noise as she tried to keep from choking on her coffee.

I hid my grin by taking a bite of English muffin. This was exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

A skunk? Mom asked, her voice shrill. People actually welcome skunks into their homes? She glanced around at our immaculate kitchen, where everything was in its place and every surface was free of dust and crumbs. My mom was all about our house being clean, which was why she had shot down every request I’d ever made for a pet.

But I was determined that this time would be different.

Yeah, I said. They’re very affectionate.

My mom shuddered at the thought of cuddling with a skunk.

And they’re clean, I adding, laying it on thick.

She shook her head. There is no way we are getting a skunk.

Okay, I mumbled in my most disappointed voice, slumping down in my seat but casting a quick glance at my mom. Just as I’d hoped she looked concerned. Yeah, my mom had a ton of rules about cleaning and homework and screen time, but I knew how much she wanted me to be happy. Ever since she and my dad had split up when I was a baby it was just the two of us and I knew how hard she worked to get me things like American Girl dolls, and send me to summer camp and dance classes. But the thing I wanted more than anything was a pet, which was why I’d come up with this whole plan in the first place. It was never about a skunk, it was about a—

Well, then what about a hamster? I asked, like the thought had just occurred to me. Hamsters live in a cage and look cute.

Their cages need wood shavings, my mother said, frowning slightly at the thought of the dust wood shavings might create.

Actually now they have paper shavings that hardly make a mess at all, I replied. I’d done my research.

What about the odor? my mom asked, wrinkling her nose as though she could already smell a dirty hamster cage.

We could keep the cage in my room, I said. And I’d clean it every day so it would stay fresh.

My mom stood up and began to clear her place. Hurry up with that English muffin, honey, she said. You don’t want to be late.

I was so eager to do what she asked that I stuffed the rest of my food in my mouth. Then I saw her wince. Whoops. Yes, I’d finished the muffin, but I’d forgotten to use good table manners, one of the many things that mattered to my mom. Honestly sometimes it was hard to get everything just how my mom wanted it. It didn’t help that she was perfect, from her neat clothes and our spotless house to her job as a successful lawyer. I got my less-than-perfect genes from my dad, who lived in Seattle. When I visited him during school vacations there were dishes piled in the sink, comfortable clutter on every surface, and we always chewed with our mouths open. Not that I’d want to live with my dad; I was happy here in Roxbury Park. But it might be nice if just once in a while my mom relaxed enough to leave a few crumbs on the counter or something.

Really, Mom, you wouldn’t even know the hamster was there, I said as I rinsed off my dishes in the sink and piled them neatly in the dishwasher, trying to make up for the muffin thing.

A pet is a lot of work, my mom said, filling a travel mug with coffee for her drive to work. She added a half teaspoon of sugar and then secured the lid.

I know, but I would do it all, I said. I’d use my allowance to buy hamster food, I’d change the water every day, I’d clean the cage, everything.

My mom glanced at the clock on the stove. We’d better hurry or we’ll be late, she said.

For a moment I wondered if I should let it go and wait until later to push for the hamster. I didn’t want to make us late. But I’d come this far and the skunk decoy really seemed to have worked. I needed to see it through now, before my mom could come up with other reasons not to get the hamster.

Okay, I said, following my mom down the hall to the foyer. I’d left my pink backpack in its designated spot on the bench by the door, next to the rack where we kept all our shoes. Inside the house we did socks and slippers only. But Mom, what about the hamster? I really think I’m ready for a pet. I’m old enough to take care of it all on my own and I promise you won’t have to do a thing.

I held my breath as I waited for her to answer. Last week when my mom was in line to pay for our groceries I’d gone to the pet store next door. At the big hamster cage I’d picked out the one I wanted, a girl with feather-soft tan and white fur. I was going to name her Pippi, after my favorite book character. And now as I waited I imagined how great it would be, coming home to Pippi every day, watching her run on her wheel and snuggle down in her paper shavings every night.

My mom was putting on a pair of black high heels. Honey, no, she said, the one word puncturing all my hopes.

But why? I knew I was whining, which my mom hated, but I couldn’t help it. I could practically feel Pippi’s cuddly little body in my hands and I wasn’t ready to let that go without a fight.

My mom pulled on the blue blazer that went with the suit she was wearing, then looked at me and sighed. Sash, I know how much you want a pet, she said. But I don’t think you’re ready. A pet is a huge responsibility: it’s a living creature and it depends on you completely.

I can handle it, I know I can, I said quickly. I was positive I could, if only she would give me a chance.

But my mom was shaking her head. Last week you forgot to take out the trash and it made the whole kitchen smell, she said.

Right, but that was just a one-time thing because I had that big math test to study for, I explained.

And two weeks ago you forgot your essay for English class and I had to leave work to bring it in so you wouldn’t fail the assignment, she went on.

I opened my mouth to remind her that the real problem there was my insanely strict English teacher, Mrs. Benson, who never allowed late work. And I had gotten an A on the essay so you could argue that it had all worked out in the end.

But clearly my mom wasn’t looking at it that way. Then yesterday you forgot to take the lasagna out of the freezer and we had to go out to dinner because it wasn’t thawed in time.

I was about to say that we would never have problems like that if she’d just break down and get a microwave, something she refused to do because she said it changed the way food tasted. But my mom held up a hand. And then there was this weekend when you forgot to tell me that you promised Dana we’d give her a ride to dance and she ended up missing the class.

Okay, that one was pretty bad.

Mom, everyone forgets things sometimes, I said, trying to sound mature.

My mother was nodding. That they do, my love, she said. But some people forget things a lot. A whole lot. And those people aren’t ready for a pet. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is.

This time my shoulders slumped for real. I couldn’t believe that me forgetting a few things—okay, maybe more than a few—meant no Pippi. But it was clear that my mom thought I was too scatterbrained to handle a pet. And it was equally clear that she considered the topic closed.

Now get a move on, my mom said briskly. Or you’ll be late.

Unfortunately that was when I remembered that I’d forgotten my sweater upstairs. I raced up to get it, then stuffed my feet into my pink sneakers and flew out the front door. If I ran I still had time to catch my best friends, Kim and Taylor. The three of us met on the corner of Spruce and Montgomery every morning so that we could walk to school together.

But just as I jumped down the front steps, ready to sprint down the wide stone path to the sidewalk, my mom called me.

I turned and she silently held up my backpack, which I’d left on the bench, pretty much proving her point that I was kind of absentminded.

Whoops.

Thanks, Mom, I said, running back up the steps to get the backpack.

There was no way I was going to win the pet debate today. But as I raced down the sidewalk I was already planning my next argument, and this one wouldn’t fail.

Because I wasn’t going to give up until I had a pet of my own.

2

I was panting when I reached the corner but Kim and Taylor were still there, heads bent together as