Teacher's Pet by Laurie Halse Anderson Page A

perches on his shoulder, half-hidden under his hair. “They don’t peck. I like that.”
    â€œHow’s your teacher?” Brenna asks quietly, pointing with her chin to where Mr. Carlson is sitting.
    I roll my eyes and whisper. “I thought he was great. Until the pop quiz.”
    â€œAlready? That’s harsh!” Brenna says as she picks up the rabbit and smooths her silky coat.
    â€œYou know what they say around here,” I say with a fake smile. “It’s middle school—get used to it.”
    Sunita looks at me sympathetically. “If it makes you feel better, Maggie, I had two quizzes today. One in social studies and one in math. I’m sure you did fine.”
    â€œHa,” I say. “Fat chance.”
    â€œAny news about Shelby and the missing wedding ring?” David asks. “You weren’t on the bus this morning.”
    â€œDo we have to talk about that now?” Zoe asks as she refills a water bottle. “It’s disgusting.”
    â€œHe’s sort of, um, stopped up,” I explain. “No ring, no nothing. He’s not eating. I think he misses the boys. Gran says we just need to give it time. That lizard is eating, though. You saw him—Iggy—the one who was raised on cat food? He figured out that spinach is good stuff. Gran is really happy about that. She sent him home with half the vegetables in our refrigerator.”
    â€œThank heavens she gave them the cabbage,” Zoe says. She makes it sound like cabbage is the nastiest thing on the face of the earth, and everybody laughs. The sound makes me feel at home, and I relax.
    â€œI never knew cleaning cages could be so much fun,” Mr. Carlson calls from his desk.
    â€œWe’re talking about some Dr. Mac’s Place patients,” I explain.
    â€œIt sounds like you all like it there,” he says.
    â€œAre you kidding?” Brenna asks. “We love it!”
    Mr. Carlson pushes away from his desk and stands up. Scout leaps to his feet instantly and looks up at his companion, waiting for a command. Mr. Carlson grasps the harness. “Scout, forward.”
    They walk toward us carefully. Scout pauses in front of a chair that wasn’t pushed in properly. Before anyone can say anything, Mr. Carlson reaches out, finds the chair, and pushes it out of the way.
    I’m still mad at him about the quiz, but I want him to succeed.
    â€œGood dog,” I whisper. Pet him.
    â€œGood dog,” Mr. Carlson says. He hesitates, then crouches down and gives Scout a little pat.
    I’d love to see a big hug and lots of ear scratching and fur ruffling, but I guess these things take time. A little pat is a good start.
    â€œYou look like a pro, Mr. C.,” I say.
    â€œThanks, Maggie,” he replies.
    Scout leads my teacher the rest of the way. When they are standing next to the counter, Scout stands perfectly still. His nostrils flare and he sniffs, picking up the smells of mouse, rabbit, gerbil, hamster, and guinea pig. He seems a little confused, maybe because the cages are empty. He looks around, then freezes—there they are! A box full of scampering furry things.
    I hold my breath. What’s he going to do?
    â€œWhat’s got his attention?” Mr. Carlson asks, feeling a little tug on the harness.
    â€œWe have the rodents in a holding box on the floor,” Sunita explains. “Should we move it?”
    Mr. Carlson bends over and strokes Scout’s back. “Good boy! he says. ”Look, but don’t chase. I think he’ll be OK. He was trained not to react to other dogs and cats. Maybe that’s what he thinks they are—small cats.“
    Sunita’s eyes grow wide at this insult to cats everywhere. But she doesn’t say a word. I know the way she works. Some time over the next year, she’ll find an excuse to visit Mr. Carlson and deliver a report on the hundred ways cats are not rodents. Just thinking about it makes