The Incredibly Dead Pets of Rex Dexter
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Aaron Reynolds
Cover art copyright © 2020 by Hugo Cuellar. Cover design by Jamie Alloy. Cover © 2020 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
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Originally published in hardcover by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Publishing Group, in April 2020
First Edition: April 2020
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Reynolds, Aaron.
Title: The incredibly dead pets of Rex Dexter / by Aaron Reynolds. Description: First edition. • New York : Disney-Hyperion, 2020. • Summary: Cursed by an old carnival game, sixth-grader Rex Dexter uses his new ability to communicate with dead animals to investigate the mysterious deaths of endangered zoo animals.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019019757 • ISBN 9781368051835 (hardcover)
Subjects: • CYAC: Ghosts—Fiction. • Zoo animals—Fiction. • Endangered species—Fiction. • Blessing and cursing—Fiction. • Schools—Fiction. • Mystery and detective stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.R33213 In 2020 • DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019019757
ISBNs: 978-1-368-05183-5 (hardcover), 978-1-368-06212-1 (ebook)
E3-20200410-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
To Jodi,
who believed Rex’s crazy tale from the start
PROLOGUE
Allow me to be completely transparent. You probably won’t believe any of this.
Even my best friend, Darvish, didn’t believe me at first. And that guy will believe just about anything.
When we first met in third grade, I told him I was really a spy for the country of Poopsylvania. He believed it for three solid weeks.
You heard right. He believed in a country called Poopsylvania for almost a month.
But even Darvish had a hard time choking down recent events in my life.
Which is why I haven’t told a single living person what’s been happening to me.
Except Darvish. And now you.
Deep breath. Here goes.
I can talk to dead animals.
There. I said it. Are you happy now?
I’m talking about animals that are deceased.
Bereft of life.
No longer with us.
Only, apparently, they are still with us. And let me tell you, they’re a chatty group.
I don’t know how they find me. I’m not sure who is handing out my address in the animal underworld. But somehow, they do. They find me. They talk to me. They pester me to do stuff for them. I’ve become an afterlife errand boy.
A word of advice… if you ever find yourself in a contest with the Grim Reaper, or a mechanical facsimile of the Grim Reaper, make sure you win.
Perhaps I’ve said too much. Maybe I should back up and start at the very beginning.
Good idea. Forget you read this.
1
My story starts with a dream. We all have dreams, right? A fire in the belly that drives our spirit toward accomplishment.
George Washington dreamed of being the first president with wooden teeth.
Albert Einstein dreamed of having fluffier hair than any other scientist in history.
Pepto Bismol dreamed of a world without diarrhea.
The first thing you should know about me is this: More than anything else in the world, I’ve always dreamed of owning a dog. A real-live pet of my own.
I know what you’re thinking. Why a dog? How about a cat? Or a gerbil?
In my mind, a dog is the only true pet.
A cat? No.
A ferret? Cool, but no.
A gerbil? Please.
Of all the household animals, a dog is the pinnacle. No other animal can compare. And the best of the best? My greatest wish? My most fervent dream? A chocolate Labrador. That’s a proper pet.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m open to other possibilities.
A yellow Labrador would be fine.
A black Labrador, also fine.
Even a golden retriever would be okay. Not perfect, but certainly acceptable.
As you can see, I am not picky.
I was practically born to have a dog. After all, my name is Rex. Rex Dexter. It’s a dog’s name, for crying out loud. It’s one step away from being named Fido. Or Bandit. Or Spot.
With a name like mine, I should obviously own a dog. But I don’t.
See this empty backyard? It is devoid of canine.
See the foot of my bed? It suffers from absence of pooch.
See this kitchen floor? It is without dog dish.
It is a sad state of affairs.
My cruel situation is made even worse by a cold and ruthless reality: Everyone I know has a pet.
Everyone.
For example, there’s Sami Mulpepper. Sami Mulpepper is the smartest kid in my class. She has wavy hair and smells of soup. She also has an English setter named Sarsaparilla. You can tell she’s smart by her choice of pet.
This does not mean I like her. I do not.
Edwin Willoughby sits three rows behind me at school. He has a pit bull named Alfred. I respect his life choices.
Even Holly Creskin has two cats named Tiger and Sardine. Cats don’t really count, but it still supports my point. Two cats. And I don’t think she even likes animals. She wrinkles her
nose every time I bring them up.
My own best friend has four dogs, if you can believe it. Four. It is greedy in the extreme. Here is a list of the pets living at Darvish’s house:
1. A pug named Rascal
2. A dalmatian named Tikka
3. A schnauzer named Hong Kong Fooey
4. A boxer named Sir Barks-a-Lot
5. A fat raccoon (nameless) that resides in Darvish’s yard because his mom leaves dog food on the back porch.
Darvish insists that the raccoon does not count. But even without the raccoon, I think we can all agree: Darvish is a pet hoarder.
One time Darvish let me pretend that Rascal was mine and take him for a walk. He is a thoughtful friend, despite his pet-hogging tendencies.
Five minutes into our walk, Rascal threw up on my shoe.
So I could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
2
The closest I’ve come to the dog of my dreams was Bub. Bub was not the dog of my dreams. That is mostly because he was a fish.
A fish does not count as a real-live pet. But I suppose it is better than nothing.
I had Bub for exactly twenty-seven minutes. His name was supposed to be Bubbles. However, he suffered a very unfortunate mishap just prior to receiving his full legal name.
It wasn’t technically my fault.
I was following directions given to me by a licensed professional. The guy at PetPlanet said to put him in water as soon as possible.
Where was I supposed to put him in water?
Do we own a swimming pool? Of course not; my parents are cheap.
Is there a large aquarium in my house that is currently vacant? Don’t be ludicrous.
Do I reside on beachfront property? I wish.
There is only one place in our house that is filled with water. So that’s where I put him. It was just supposed to be for a second or two.
I was dutifully filling Bub’s little fishbowl at the sink. I was saying, “I think I’ll call him Bub—” That’s when I heard the flush.
Can I help it that my dad doesn’t look for fish before he takes care of his business?
After that, my parents decided I was “a little under-responsible” to have a pet. Which is ironic because I might be one of the most mature, responsible, rational people I’ve ever met.
“What if you had flushed a dog?” my dad said. Which is silly.
First, I did not flush Bub. Any jury of my peers would see this.
Second, it is practically impossible to flush a dog down the toilet.
Unless it’s a corgi.
Or a Chihuahua.
I’m pretty sure those are known in the business as the “flushable” breeds.
3
Ms. Yardley is taking attendance.
She is my sixth-grade teacher.
She has a voice that is roughly the same pitch and decibel level as a dead car battery trying to start. I feel for her. For all of us, really.
But, happily, I can’t hear it at the moment because Darvish is talking to me.
“I smell chowder,” he says. “Do you smell chowder?”
“Of course I smell it,” I say. “It’s coming from our soup-scented neighbor to the north.”
“Canada?”
“No,” I explain. “I don’t like to be rude, so I will talk in code. Her name rhymes with Clammy Dullpepper.”
“Well, whatever it is, it smells good,” he says. “Tomatoey.”
I refuse to dignify such talk with a response. Everyone knows a true chowder does not contain tomatoes.
Plus, his assertion that Sami smells good is preposterous. Some might say she smells wonderful. Some might say she is highly attractive. Some might say her hair is the magical color of autumn leaves kissed by early morning sunlight. But not me.
“So, are you having a birthday party?” Darvish asks. As my best friend, Darvish is well aware that my birthday is looming. I think this might finally be it: the year of the dog. After all, it has been a couple of years since the Bub fiasco. I am hoping the stink of that unfortunate incident has been washed away by the loofah sponge of time.
“Darvish, birthday parties are for children,” I say, shaking my head sadly. “Do I look like a children?”
“Yes,” he says. “We both look like children.”
“Well, I’m not. And neither are you.”
“Okay.”
“But you are welcome to come over after I get my presents so I can gloat.”
“Okay.”
Ms. Yardley’s unmistakable voice has reached my row. “Darvish?” calls Ms. Yardley.
We have been in school nearly two months, yet this poor woman still insists on calling daily attendance. I worry there may be something wrong with her memory functions. For her own well-being, I should bring this to the attention of the school board at their next meeting.
“Here, Ms. Yardley!” says Darvish from in front of me.
“Rex?”
I do not answer. It is a little game we play.
“Rex, please say Here when I call your name,” she says.
“Ms. Yardley,” I say, addressing her with the deference due her station. “Please refer to me as ‘The Dogless Rex Dexter.’” We’ve talked about this and she full well knows it.
“I’m not doing that,” she says.
I have the feeling my civil liberties are being infringed upon.
“How about ‘His Royal Petlessness’?”
This proposal has also been repeatedly met with resistance. “I’m not doing that, either.”
“It’s not for much longer,” I inform her. “I expect to receive that dog any time now.”
“Rex…”
“My birthday is in a few days,” I explain helpfully. “My parents do not realize it, but I have been cutting out pictures of dogs from magazines and leaving them around the house. They have no idea that I’m secretly manipulating them. It’s adorable.”
“Rex…” She sighs, rubbing her eyes.
This tug-of-war has been raging since the start of the school year. “Allow me to suggest a compromise. You may feel free to come up with a name of your own invention, as long as it reflects my ill-treated and petless state and the general unfairness of the world we live in.”
“Rex, please.”
“Just think, Ms. Yardley. I’ve allowed you carte blanche. The only limit is your own creativity.”
“Rex Dexter…” she says through gritted teeth.
“Here.” I yield. I cannot fight her forever.
4
The big day has arrived.
My birthday jubilee.
The glorious anniversary of my birth.
B-Day for Me-Day.
I may be too old for a party, but you can never be too old to have cake and ice cream for breakfast. The cake is shaped like a chocolate Labrador (my request). It is also chocolate cake (also my request). With chocolate ice cream.
That’s right. A chocolate chocolate chocolate Labrador.
If the thought of that makes your heart take flight, you are not alone. The whole idea is poetic and speaks to the soul as well as the taste buds. If Emily Dickinson had created chocolate chocolate chocolate Labrador cakes instead of books, she probably would have made a few more sales.
As tasty as this poetic concoction is, the main event beckons.
My mom emerges from the kitchen, heavy laden with my present. She carries a box with a big red ribbon. It has holes on the side.
Holes!
Holes in a box mean one thing and one thing only.
From within the box comes the glorious sound of muffled scratching. My suspicions are confirmed.
There’s something alive in that box.
And that something is a living, breathing-air-through-holes-in-a-box DOG!
Clearly, my subtle manipulation of their brain waves these past weeks has paid off.
The size of the box could indicate a small breed. Terrier. Dachshund. Not as big and impressive as one would hope, but I pride myself o
n being Mr. Flexible. Besides, a small box might also mean a chocolate Labrador puppy.
I put my ear to the box and I hear it. Breathing. And an odd little clucking bark. Perhaps some exotic and rare breed? My mom and dad have outdone themselves. Have I mentioned lately that I have the best parents in the known universe?
My anticipation has been pushed past its limits. I cannot wait a moment longer to meet my new lifelong pal and bosom companion.
I rip off the ribbon.
I untie the strings.
I take a deep breath.
Then, at long last, I yank off the box lid to gaze joyfully upon my very own pet…
… chicken.
Please disregard my previous statement about having the best parents in the known universe. It is not their fault. My parents and I are clearly suffering from a failure to communicate.
Perhaps I’ve been too subtle with my hinting. I try to express myself in simple, easy-to-follow terms. “Guys, this is a chicken.”
“Exactly!” says my mom.
“What do I do with it?” I ask.
“It’s a pet!” says my dad.
“A chicken isn’t a pet, Dad. A chicken is a Happy Meal.”
“It’s a practice pet.”
Practice pet?
“This will give you a chance to practice your maturity,” says my mom.
“Take good care of the chicken. Then we can see about getting a dog,” says my dad.
There is one thing in the world that I wanted for my birthday more than a real-live dog: a lesson in responsibility.
That’s sarcasm, by the way.
Bitter birthday sarcasm. Which is the most sarcastic kind of sarcasm known to mankind.
5
“That’s definitely not a dog,” says Darvish.
“I know it’s not a dog.”
“I have four dogs,” he points out. “So I’m kind of an expert on them.”
This greedy kid is forever rubbing his brood of pets in my face.
“And that’s definitely not a dog.”
We are sitting in my room. Darvish is on my bed, eating a bag of chocolate chips he has produced from his backpack. Just chocolate chips. Who eats a bag of chocolate chips? Darvish, that’s who. The kid always has some random snack on him, which is a handy skill set to have available when the munchies kick in.