The Old Dogs' Club

Chapter One: Newsworthy
My dog’s name is Spot.
He’s a dalmatian.
He’s twelve years old, which is old for a dog, but he doesn’t know that.
He likes to run and play with other dogs.
He has arthritis.
He is really bad at taking his medicine. We have to

I stop in the middle of my sentence because Ms. Kellye is reading over my shoulder. Ms. Kellye is our teacher. She’s also a writer. A real writer. Not the kind I want to be when I grow up, but still. It’s hard to concentrate when any kind of writer is watching every word that flows out of your pencil.
“You’ve got a good start here, Hazel.” Ms. Kellye taps my paper with her purple fingernail. “That’s a nice list of facts about your dog. Now what are you planning to do with those facts?”
I shrug. I have no idea.
“Well, what kind of story would you like to write?” Ms. Kellye crouches, so we’re eye to eye. Hers are blue. Like Spot’s.
I consider adding He has blue eyes to my list of facts. That’s a good one. Most dogs have brown eyes.
Ms. Kellye is waiting for my answer.
I sigh inside myself. I’d like to write a fantasy story, but that’s not what we’re doing in this class. And I didn’t know that until I walked in here two hours ago. The flyer my grandma showed me said this was a free summer writing class for kids, taught by a real writer. It didn’t say that the teacher was a newspaper writer or that we would be making a newspaper in this class.
Maybe I won’t come back next week. Mom and I are going home in a month, so I’ll miss the last two classes anyway. Including the final publication party.
Ms. Kellye is still waiting for my answer.
“A feature story?” I try. I don’t remember the difference between a feature story and a human-interest story. “Maybe a profile.” I do remember what that is. That’s a story about a specific person. Or animal.
“You can’t write a profile about your dog!” the annoying kid beside me blurts.
“Sure you can,” Ms. Kellye says over her shoulder. “As long as there’s something newsworthy about the dog.”
Is there something newsworthy about Spot?
I don’t know. Probably not.
Ms. Kellye stands and moves to the center of our circle. “We’re almost out of time,” she says. “Next week we’ll talk about ledes. That’s L-E-D-E-S, not L-E-A-D-S.”
“What are L-E-D-E-S?” the same kid asks.
“It’s what catches your attention at the beginning of a story and makes you want to read the whole thing,” a girl with long, dark hair says.
“Why is it spelled L-E-D-E instead of L-E-A-D?” the annoying kid presses.
“We’ll talk about that next week,” Ms. Kellye says. “In the meantime, try to do some interviews this week. I’ve got a handout on how to interview a subject right here.” She holds up a small stack of papers. More than enough for the nine kids in this class.
I close my notebook, gather my library books, and wait for everyone else to leave.
“Yes, Hazel,” Ms. Kellye says once we’re alone.
I dig my toe into the floor. “I just wanted to tell you I won’t be here for the last two classes.”
“That’s okay. You can email your final story to me, and it’ll still be included in our newspaper.” She smiles and offers me a handout.
I don’t really need it, but I take it anyway.
“Was there something else?” Ms. Kellye asks.
I can’t bring myself to say, Actually, I won’t be back at all, or I didn’t know this was a newspaper class, so I shake my head and make my way to the door.
The girl who knew about ledes is waiting around the corner. “Hello,” she says cheerfully as she falls into step beside me.
“Hi,” I reply.
“Hazel, right?” I nod and she says, “I’m Anjali. And I love your idea of writing a profile about your dog.”
“You do?”
“Yes! Would you mind if I write a profile about my dog too?”
“Why would I mind?”
She scrunches up her nose. “Because I’m sort of stealing your idea.”
“It’s fine,” I say. I like that she thinks that was a good idea.
As we continue through the library together, I rack my brain for something else to say. “Has your dog done something newsworthy?”
“Yes!” Her whole face lights up. “Sophie’s a therapy dog. My mom brings her here one Saturday a month so kids can read to her. Last month, she got an award for one hundred hours of volunteer service. Sophie did, I mean. Not my mom.” She blushes. “My mom has way more volunteer hours than that.”
“That’s nice,” I say.
Anjali holds the door for me, and we step out into the hot summer sun to wait for our rides. “Are you new here?” she asks.
We sit on the bench, and I rest my stack of books on my bare legs. “No. I don’t live here. I’m visiting my grandma.”
“Where do you live?”
“Chicago.”
“Really?” Anjali’s eyes go wide. “I’ve never met anyone from Chicago before. You must think it’s super boring here.”
“No.” I smile politely.
Anjali tilts her head. “Are you just saying that to be nice?”
“No!” I laugh.
Four Lakes, Minnesota, is small, but it’s not boring. Not really. It’s got a library, an amazing pizza place, and well . . . four small lakes. My mom says they’re ponds, but that’s because Chicago is by Lake Michigan, which is huge!
“How are you not bored? What do you do when you’re here?” Anjali asks.
“I don’t know. Same stuff I do at home. Read. Write stories. I’ve also been helping at my grandma’s doggy day care—”
“Your grandma owns a doggy day care?” Anjali’s eyes go even wider. I don’t think it takes much to impress this girl.
“Yes,” I say.
“I didn’t even know we had a doggy day care in this town,” Anjali says.
“It’s not in town. It’s out in the country. It’s called Dog Days, and it’s been there for like thirty years.”
“What do you do to help out there?”
“Hang out with the dogs. Take them out of the play area when they get tired. Or overstimulated. Give them water. Clean up dog poop.” I make a face. So does Anjali.
“But the best thing is, I’ve been planning this new group,” I say, shifting on the bench. “I got the idea because my dog is too old to run around a lot, but he still loves to be with other dogs. So this group is just for old dogs like him. That’s why I got these.” I show her my books. Two of them are informational, specifically about old dogs. The other three have activities and games that any dog can enjoy.
“Ooh! Can Sophie come?” Anjali asks. “She’s ten.”
“Maybe. I’ll have to ask my grandma.”
“If she says yes, maybe I could help with the group too. Then you and I could do a story about it for this class. We could write it together! Wouldn’t that be fun? Ms. Kellye said we could work in pairs if we want to.”
She did. And it would be fun to write a story with someone else. I’d stay in the class if Anjali and I got to write a story together.
“Oh, there’s my mom.” Anjali hops up from the bench. But before she leaves, she scrawls something on a scrap of paper and hands it to me. It’s a phone number. “Call me when you find out if Sophie can come to your group.”
“Okay,” I say. But I don’t know why Grandma would say no.