Boy's Best Friend Read Free Page B

things?” he said out loud. Then he went to look for his mother.
    â€œCan I use your computer?” he asked.
    â€œOkay,” she said. “But only fifteen minutes.”
    George sat down at the table his mother used for a desk. He opened up to Rupert Sheldrake’s Web site. In the middle of the page was an e-mail address. George began to write.
    Dear Dr. Sheldrake,
    For my science class, I am doing your experiment about dogs who know when their owners are coming home. And I’m wondering if you would answer a few questions.
    George paused. “Mom,” he called. “Is twenty a few?”
    â€œTwenty is more than a few,” said his mother.
    â€œWhat about a dozen?” said George.
    â€œA dozen is twelve,” said his mother.
    â€œOh,” said George. “How much is a baker’s dozen?”
    â€œThirteen.”
    â€œThat’s an unlucky number,” George said to himself. Fourteen was better. George continued.
    Like about fourteen. I was going to say thirteen but that’s an unlucky number. I’m not superstitious but maybe you are. This is my first question: My brother, Zac, says it’s just a coincidence that my dog, Bart, knows when I’m coming home from school. He says that even if I prove that Bart is waiting for me, I won’t know why that is. I think maybe Bart is telepathic. Maybe I am. But even though it seems like that, how can we ever be sure? Sometimes, I wonder if we can we ever know anything for sure, even in science.

    Sincerely,
    George Masson

    P.S. I love science and I think your experiments are really fun. Please write back.

 
    4
    On Monday morning Lester was up early, roused by the light of day trickling through the slats in the shades. He rolled over and hung his head over the side of the bed, feeling the blood rush to the roots of his hair. “Do you think this makes me smarter?” he said to Bill Gates. “More oxygen to my brain.”
    Lester slid off the bed and stood up. “Guess what?” he said. “I dreamed we walked all the way back to Denver.”
    Bill Gates had woken up too and was bathing, licking his fur with his long tongue (he was more fastidious about cleanliness than Lester). But he paused when Lester spoke.
    â€œI love you, Bill Gates,” said Lester.
    Bill Gates went back to his bath while Lester thought how much easier washing would be if he had only to lick himself. He licked his forearm. It tasted salty.
    â€œTime for breakfast,” said Lester. He stuffed his notebook into his backpack and headed for the stairs with Bill Gates trailing behind.
    â€œWhat’s up?” chirped Carlos when Lester entered the kitchen.
    â€œGood morning, Carlos,” said Lester, although he wasn’t sure what was good about it. In less than an hour he would be at a new school in a new classroom with a new teacher, surrounded by a bunch of new kids.
    Lester’s father was seated at the table reading the newspaper. He looked slick in a freshly pressed shirt, blazer, and tie. He always looked neat and tidy, even in his gym clothes. Lester guessed some people were just born that way. And he wasn’t one of them. No matter how hard he tried, he always looked a little tousled—a stain on his shirt, a scab on his knee, a tuft of hair out of place. People in Denver didn’t seem to mind. Lester wondered if anyone would mind here on Cape Cod.
    Lester’s father folded the newspaper and slapped it down on the table. “All ready for school?” he asked. He poured Lester a bowl of muesli and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. He was convinced that the key to a successful day was a good breakfast.
    Lester’s mother glided into the kitchen in a green and pink chenille sweat suit.
    â€œYou look like a psychedelic caterpillar,” said Lester.
    â€œWhy thank you,” said his mother, smiling. “All ready for school?”
    Lester smiled back halfheartedly. His