The Misadventures of the Magician's Dog by Frances Sackett Page A

happen to Peter, too.”
    â€œBut you aren’t mean,” said Izzy. “And you’re a magician.”
    â€œMe?” said The Dog. “Magic doesn’t make me angry, but I can only do it because the magician wished it. And my power is only a fraction of his.”
    â€œSo Peter could be even more powerful than you?” Celia said. “He could change us into anything we want? Turn dirt into money? Do our homework? Wish us anyplace we want to go?”
    â€œWith some limits,” said The Dog.
    â€œI don’t want Peter to do any more magic,” Izzy said.
    â€œBut . . . ,” said Peter.
    â€œBut . . . ,” said Celia at the same time.
    The Dog laughed, a snorty sort of half bark. “Once you’ve started doing magic, it can be hard to stop.”
    Izzy looked as if she were about to cry. “But I don’t want him to turn mean!”
    â€œOf course I won’t do magic if you don’t want me to,” Peter hurriedly reassured her, the words tumbling from him at the sight of her worried face. “I promise I’m not going to become like The Dog’s magician. Please don’t be upset, okay?”
    â€œBut, Peter . . . ,” Celia objected.
    â€œIzzy doesn’t need to worry,” said Peter. He raised his eyebrows, hoping Celia would understand.
    Before Celia could respond, a door squeaked at the other end of the hallway. Celia and Peter looked at each other in alarm.
    â€œIzzy, don’t say anything to Mom about magic, or The Dog talking, okay?” whispered Celia.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œShe won’t understand,” Peter said. “And she’s gotenough to worry about, with her new job and Dad being gone and all.”
    â€œAll right,” Izzy said, a little uncertainly.
    Peter squeezed her hand, which was still in his. He would do anything to protect her, he vowed to himself. But he would find a way to save his dad at the same time, even if he had to lie to do it.

Chapter Seven

    Breakfast that morning was awkward and full of long silences. Peter kept waiting for his mother to put down her cup and demand to know what was going on. But she was distracted: a frown pulled at the corners of her mouth, especially when she glanced at the newspaper half open on the counter. A story about the war, Peter guessed; probably more soldiers dead in an attack somewhere. Peter had given up reading about the war. Somehow the descriptions of battles in distant countries made his father seem farther away than ever.
    Now, sitting at the breakfast table, Peter couldn’t tell whether he was relieved by his mother’s preoccupation or not. In a way, it would have been nice to tell her the whole story, to drop this moral dilemma on her lap and let her be the one to resolve it.
    She wasn’t going to make it that easy.
    While Peter nibbled on his toast and scrambled eggs, his thoughts went something like this:
    1. He understood how to do magic and could do it if he wanted.
    2. He had promised Izzy he wouldn’t do magic.
    3. Doing magic might make him angry.
    4. If he did magic, maybe he could bring his father home.
    Four was the sticking point. In those first moments after he’d turned the mushroom back into The Dog, a small portion of Peter’s mind had imagined all he could do with his newfound powers. Once The Dog had explained what happened to magicians, Peter had let go of those dreams. But his father—how could Peter not use magic to get his father back? Maybe, he argued to himself, Izzy would allow him to do one or two small spells (was that what he should call them?) if she knew what he was doing the magic for. But what if she didn’t? Peter knew himself; he knew that although he wasn’t extraordinarily good, he
was
ordinarily good: the sort of kid who returned lost wallets when he found them; who didn’t cheat on tests or lie to his parents or accept too much