You know what dogs are like. There they all are, flopped out flat on the porch like a bunch of fur pancakes, snoring up a storm, but when you try to sneak past, even creeping along on tiptoe and holding your breath, in like two seconds they’re all riled up and jumping around and barking their fool heads off. Though of course my sleeping dogs might have stayed asleep a little longer if it hadn’t been for bad luck, bad timing, the green bus, and the twins. With my sleeping dogs, it was like I put on football cleats and stomped on their tails. The green bus belongs to Henry Jones, who was the oldest friend of old Mr. Pilcher, Jim Pilcher’s grandfather. When old Mr. Pilcher died, Henry Jones was so sad over it that he was drunk for two straight weeks. He just sat on his porch in his undershirt and pajama bottoms and drank rye whiskey out of the bottle and cried. Then he sobered up and said he was done with his period of mourning and it was time for him to move on. Then he went over to Springfield and bought himself a secondhand school bus.
