Shiloh by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

and cookies in there. Put the plastic lid on and set a large rock on top to keep the raccoons out. I’m so proud of myself I like to crow. Hungry again, too, but that half chicken-salad sandwich from Mrs. Howard isShiloh’s dinner, and I give it to him right off.
    After that Shiloh and me go on a good long run over the meadow on the far side of the hill, and after I take him back, put fresh water in the pie pan, and love him good, I start down the hill. Halfway to the bottom, here comes Dara Lynn.
    â€œWhat you doin’ up here?” I ask her, heart starting to thump.
    â€œJust wanted to see what you’re doing,” she complains. “You go off up here every day almost.”
    â€œYou leave Becky by herself while Ma’s ironing?”
    â€œBecky’s okay.” She turns and follows me back down the hill. Shiloh, up in the pen, don’t make a sound. That’s how smart a dog he is.
    â€œWell, I was lookin’ for that snake again, but he’s hiding from me good,” I tell her.
    â€œYou still didn’t get him?” she asks, and when I look back, she’s got her eyes to the left, then to the right. “You didn’t even take your snake stick,” she says. She’s a smart one, too.
    â€œGot me a stick back up on the hill,” I tell her.
    â€œHow many snakes you figure are up there, Marty?”
    â€œOh . . . ’bout twenty-nine that you can see. Baby snakes all over the place, though, hiding. Growing into big ones all the time.”
    Dara Lynn’s walking faster now, hurrying to git on by me, watching every place she sets her foot.
    I don’t feel good about the lies I tell Dara Lynn or David or his ma. But don’t feel exactly bad, neither. If what Grandma Preston told me once about heaven and hell is true, and liars go to hell, then I guess that’s where I’m headed. But she also told me that only people are allowed in heaven, not animals. And if I was to go to heaven and look down to see Shiloh left below, head on his paws, I’d run away from heaven sure.

CHAPTER 8
    N ext two days go by smooth as buttermilk. Shiloh gets biscuits or toast and a couple bites of ham for breakfast, and then in the evening, I fix him up some frankfurters, cut up and mixed with sour cream, and little chunks of cheese. He don’t much like the cheese. It sticks to his teeth and he turns his head sideways when he chews, trying to get it off. Licks his chops afterward, though.
    He throws up the first time he eats the stuff—too rich for his belly, I guess—but after that he manages to keep it down, and all the while he’s fattening out a little. Each day it’s harder to see his ribs.
    I know my secret can’t go on forever, though. Only had the dog for six days, and that evening I find out that Judd Travers wants to hunt on our land. Up the hill and over in the far woods. Thinks maybe he could find himself some quail over there, he says.
    When Dad tells us that piece of news at dinner, my whole body goes cold. I want to jump up and scream, “No!” but I just grip my chair and wait it out.
    â€œRay, I don’t like that idea at all,” Ma says. “You never ask to hunt on his land, and I don’t want him hunting on ours. If we let him, we’ve got to let anyone else who asks, and one of those shots could find its way down here.”
    â€œI’ll tell him no,” Dad says. “Don’t like the idea of it myself. I’ll tell him the kids play up there.”
    I stopped gripping the chair, but my heart still goes on thumping hard. I’m thinking how maybe Judd Travers has hold of the idea that I got his dog hid up there and he’s looking for an excuse to snoop around. Having Shiloh a secret is like a bomb waiting to go off.
    Next day Dad comes home with more news—good news to him, bad news to me.
    â€œCan’t figure it out,” he says, walkin’ through the door with a