Crawley always called us “Mr. Schwa” and “Mr. Bonano.” At first it annoyed me on account of my teachers call us “Mr.” when they were mad at us. But then, since Crawley was always mad at us, it kind of had some logic to it.

This was the third week of our dog days. Until now, Crawley had little to say to us except to comment on our unacceptable wardrobe, how unpleasant my acne was, and couldn’t we find some better deodorant, because according to him, after a day of school we smelled worse than fourteen dogs. It was always an adventure with him, never knowing what he was going to gripe about when we showed up. He was usually much more on my case than the Schwa’s. I assumed it was just the Schwa Effect at work. Little did I know he was sizing me up for a higher position in the Crawley Universe.

“Mr. Schwa, I said you could go.”

The Schwa looked at me and shrugged. “Fine. I’ll notify your next of kin, Antsy.”

“Yeah, I appreciate it. If I live, I’ll call you.”

Once the Schwa was gone, Crawley stared at me from his wheelchair across the room for way too long.

“So what’s up, Chuckles?” I had stopped calling him “sir” or Mr. Crawley. The way I figured it, those were terms of respect, and he really hadn’t earned mine. Chuckles was my little nickname for him. It started as Chuck, but Chuckles seemed so much more appropriate—especially because of the way he frowned when I said it.

“I am not a clown,” he said. “Kindly refrain from calling me that.”

I just grinned. He frowned some more. “From now on, Mr. Schwa will walk the dogs alone.”

“That’s not fair,” I told him. “It’ll take him till nighttime.”

“I will pay him,” Crawley said. “Ten cents per dog per day.”

“Twenty-five.”

“What are you, his attorney?”

“His manager.”

“I see. All right. Twenty-five.”

“And that’s only if he agrees.”

Crawley didn’t answer that—maybe because it was a fact of life that no one ever disagreed with him. “As for you, I have another task for you.”

“Do I get paid, too?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. This scared me, because Crawley gave money like bulls gave milk: not at all, and you got gored for asking. If he had already decided this was a paying job, it must be horrible beyond words.

“Your salary will depend on how well you perform your duties.”

“What’s the job?”

Sloth came sniffing at Crawley’s pocket for treats, and the old man pushed him away. “My granddaughter will be spending the next few months with me. You will spend time with her. You will entertain her. You will pretend to like her.”

I was sensing this haircut was going to be one nasty Mohawk. “What’s wrong with her?”