Girl's Best Friend Read Free Page A

documentaries, which are movies about things that are true, and they’re usually too boring to see in a movie theater so people watch them at home on TV for free. It also means that sometimes—like now—he’s unemployed. Or as he calls it, “in between jobs.” So he hangs around the neighborhood a lot, and if he saw me walking some strange dog, well, it wouldn’t be good.
    My parents don’t know I’m a dog walker. Sure, they know I walk Isabel’s dog, but that was their idea and I do it as a favor. Meaning I don’t get paid.
    Mom and Dad don’t know that I walk other dogs, like, in a professional capacity. And if they knew, they wouldn’t like it because they’re convinced that Finn and I are too young for jobs. They want us to focus on school and a few extracurricular activities of their choosing: kung fu on Saturdays, oil painting at the art museum on Sundays, and Italian-immersion class (including food, language, and art) in the summer.
    It’s not like I set out to lie to them exactly. I didn’t even mean to start this business. The whole thing just kind of happened accidentally.
    A few weeks ago, while I was out walking Preston, I ran into my old third grade teacher, Ms. Patel.
    “Cute dog,” she’d said as she bent down to scratch him behind his ears. “He must be a big eater.”
    “Don’t know. I just walk him,” I replied.
    “So you’re a dog walker?” she asked, and I told her yeah.
    And before I could explain that I actually walk only Preston, Ms. Patel told me to call her Parminder and asked if I could fit her puggle into my schedule. She practically shoved her spare keys into my hands and I couldn’t say no. Not because she was my favorite elementary school teacher, super generous with smiles and gold star stickers when that kind of thing actually mattered. And not just because she offered to pay me so well. I couldn’t say no because her dog’s name was Milo.
    Aargh!
    I tried not to think about the Pizza Den disaster as Preston and I continued on through the park. We walked past the picnic grounds and along the edge of the baseball fields, stopping at the dog beach, which is actually just a slab of concrete leading into an artificial pond. A few lost-looking ducks floated on the murky surface.
    Not being much of a water dog, Preston didn’t seem to notice. He sniffed a nearby tree instead. Then he stalked a pigeon. I pulled him away and we kept walking. And walking.
    “Let’s go, Preston. I’ve still got two more dogs today.”
    Preston ignored me. Every time he paused to squat, he changed his mind. I was starting to lose patience when he found the perfect place. As he did his thing, I placed the plastic poop bag over my hand and got ready to scoop it up, hoping that Ivy—or worse, Milo—didn’t walk by.
    Luckily, the path was deserted except for two tired-looking moms, each pushing gigantic strollers up the hill. One of the strollers had twins in it. Girls, I assumed from their pink fleece jackets and purple booties. They were too young to protest over the matching outfits, but they’d do so eventually. This is a fact. And here’s another one: Park Slope is crawling with twins. Sometimes literally.
    When Preston finished, I bent down to scoop up his mess and noticed something strange. It glittered in the afternoon sun. I don’t normally study poop. Who would? But something about it struck me as odd. Odd as in blue and green and sparkly.
    Sighing, I picked it up and put it in the bag. Mystery solved.
    When we got back to Isabel’s apartment I called, “How badly do you want that ring?”
    But no one answered.
    “Isabel?” I looked around but couldn’t find her.
    Weird, but I didn’t give it much thought as I took off Preston’s leash and placed it on the coatrack by the door.
    Then I took out one of my note cards and a pen:

    Preston and I had fun in Prospect Park and I think we found your ring, too. Please see bag! (You also might want to put on some gloves and hold