How to Look for a Lost Dog by Ann M. Martin Page B

mine?”
    I see a mean little smile on my father’s mouth, but all he says is, “Seven fifteen.”
    Seven and one and five add up to thirteen, which is a prime number, but in this case I don’t think it’s a good thing. “She’s been gone for over an hour,” I reply.
    â€œNow you answer my question. Is the phone out too?”
    â€œYes. Why didn’t you watch Rain when she went outside?”
    â€œRose.”
    â€œBut why didn’t you?”
    â€œRose, you’re driving me crazy.”
    â€œWell, why didn’t you wake me up?”
    â€œWhat? When Rain went out? I don’t know. Because we always let her out by herself and she always comes back to the porch.”
    â€œShe hasn’t been out during a storm before.”
    â€œDid you eat breakfast yet?”
    â€œI was looking for Rain.”
    â€œDid. You. Eat. Breakfast. Yet.”
    â€œNo.”
    My father starts pulling out supplies. He sets paper bowls and paper cups on the table, a box of cereal, and milk from the fridge, which is dark inside. “The milk is still okay,” he says, sniffing it.
    I walk from the window to the table and back to the window. I open the front door. I call, “Rain! Rain! ”
    â€œBreakfast is ready,” says my father.
    â€œRain is missing.” I step back inside.
    My father goes to the window. “What a mess,” he says.
    â€œThe bridge over the driveway washed away,” I tell him. “We’re stuck here.”
    â€œDamn.”
    â€œI wish we could call Uncle Weldon.”
    â€œWhat’s he going to do?”
    â€œHelp me look for Rain. Why didn’t you watch her when she went out?”
    â€œI’ve already answered that question, Rose. Now let’s eat.”
    I stand at the window. I pace into my bedroom and back to the kitchen. “Why didn’t you check to see if she came back?”
    My father slams his hand on the table and the carton of milk jumps. He looks at the Atlantic City clock. “It’s 8.30,” he says, “and already I’ve had it with you.”
    8.30 a.m. is when my father has had it with me, and also when I notice that Rain’s collar is hanging on the doorknob. That’s where I left it last night, before my father made Rain and me go to bed without peeing.
    Rain is lost outside and she isn’t wearing her collar.
    She has no identification.
    My father is the one who let her out. That’s why I’m mad at him.

21
Rain’s Nose
    All dogs have smart noses, but Rain’s must be especially smart. I think of the day she followed me through the hallways at school until she found me in Mrs Kushel’s room. Her nose had to sort through the smells of dozens of kids and teachers, and choose just mine to track.
    I remember Parvani saying, “You’re so lucky, Rose.” She meant lucky to have Rain, a dog with such a smart nose.
    I can’t eat the cereal my father gets for me. I leave the table and stand at the front door again.
    â€œA watched pot never boils,” says my father. He slurps some cereal and washes it down with warm Coke from a can.
    â€œWhat?” I say.
    â€œNever heard that expression? It means…” My father pauses. “It means, well, it means don’t keep standing there. Rain will come back when she’s ready.”
    I turn around to face my father. “Rain has a smart nose,” I tell him.
    â€œUnh.”
    â€œShe does. Even if she got turned around in the storm her nose will help her find her way home.”
    â€œOkay then. Come eat your breakfast.”
    The day is long and dark. The rain stops falling and the wind stops blowing, but the sun doesn’t come out. Our house is cold. My father puts on trousers and a flannel shirt. He makes a fire in the woodstove. I think I would feel warmer if Rain were here.
    After breakfast I ask if I can go outside and search for Rain.
    My father stands on the