Song 06: "You're My Home"

One week after the Foxworths had adopted Dodger as their own, they'd removed the bandaging from his ribs and back leg. His wounds had healed well, but little did he know another trial awaited him. He thought Mr. Foxworth was joking when he smelled his fur and nearly gagged. "Whew, boy! What do you do, roll around in dumpsters all day?" Dodger would neither confirm nor deny that accusation. "You're getting a bath."

But the man wasn't joking. Half an hour later, he had Dodger trapped in a tub of water in the mansion's back patio. Mr. Foxworth nearly pulled a muscle restraining him. "Hold still, boy! You're being ridiculous!" He held him underwater like a monster.

"Help! Help me!" Dodger sputtered. "Oliver, he's crazy! He's drowning me!"

"If you survived the East River, I'm sure you'll survive a bath." Oliver sat on the back steps a safe distance away from the splashing water. He licked his paws innocently.

"Okay, I call a ceasefire!" Mr. Foxworth let go, laughing with some sick joy. Dodger flopped to the ground, sopping wet and covered in soapy suds. "We can take a break."

But when Dodger turned his back, the man hosed off the last of the soap. Dodger yelped and fled — Mr. Foxworth was a criminal mastermind worse than Sykes — and shook his fur out properly. He laid down in a sunny spot on the patio to dry.

"Don't forget these, boy." The man wisely gave him dog treats first, then took Dodger's new crimson collar and navy bandana from his back pocket and tied them around his neck.

Dodger was proud to wear his collar, something he never thought he'd say.

Mr. Foxworth went back inside, leaving Dodger and Oliver to enjoy the afternoon sun. While the dog was still damp, Oliver avoided snuggling him. "Don't think I don't see ya snickering over there," Dodger said, rolling on his back.

"I'm just astounded you don't smell like greasy hotdogs for once."

"If it weren't for those hotdogs, we never woulda met."

"That's true," Oliver chuckled, then he saw his friend pawing at his collar. He hoped it wasn't too tight. "Dodger? Baths aside… you are happy here, aren't you?"

"Sure I am. Just thinking about tha day Fagin gave me my old bandana."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I know that new one isn't the same."

"Don't apologize, kid. That thing reeked. Absitively needed to go." He stretched his arms and legs out, baring his belly to the world. "Just not used to this baby yet."

The dog and cat stayed on the patio the rest of the afternoon, soaking up sun.


Lesser dogs carried Georgette into the Taj Mahal on a silk pillow as crowds of admirers threw flower petals at her. She had just been crowned Best in Show for the entire world. She was being fed her favorite carob chocolates, surrounded by her favorite dogs.

"Oh, Rex… say it again, you rapscallion," Georgette whispered.

Rex leaned in close, his green scarf brushing her. "Perfect isn't easy… but you make it look so." Georgette swooned and fell into his arms.

But just before Rex could ravish her — to which she'd protest, of course, then helplessly succumb — the doors of the Taj Mahal burst open. A tiny dog charged into the room. He was so handsome, so dashing, so bug-eyed. "Stay away from my woman, Rexy!" A Chihuahua.

"My Alonzo! You came for me!" Georgette watched her Latino lover fight tooth and nail for the right to court her. Rex fought well, but her Alonzo was fearless. He ran the rapscallion out of the Taj Mahal with his tail between his legs.

"I'll always come for ya, mi amor," he murmured. "Para siempre."

"Nothing could ruin this night. It's just you and me."

"Oh no, I brought a friend. Ya remember Spot, don't ya?"

A tornado erupted on the spot and blew away the Taj Mahal. All of her chocolates, her admirers, were swept up in the storm, and in the center of it was a hideous mutt with messy white, gray, and brown fur. He had ugly, floppy ears and an arrogant sneer.

"Wakey, wakey, Champ!"

Georgette awoke to the most horrid sight imaginable. The mongrel was standing over her, leering at her, and wearing his new collar over his stupid bandana. "Having a bad dream?"

"It was the best — until you came along. I didn't invite you!"

"I don't need no invitation. We're housemates now, remember?"

Her eyes went wide as her first-place medals. She'd hoped it was only temporary, just to let his injuries recover, but here he was with his bandages gone, freshly bathed. It was true.

"They can't do this! I didn't give them permission to adopt you!"

"Tha Dodge makes his own rules." He strutted over to her heart-shaped mirror and admired his reflection. "Y'know, red and navy looks pretty snazzy after all."

"Get out of here, Spot! This is my suite, not yours!"

"Oh, hope ya don't mind, but I tried some of ya fancy chow while ya slept. I gotta say, not impressed. I think I prefer my street vendors." He took another bite and made a face. That designer chow was worth more than his life, and he dared insult it?

"You're horrible. You're absolutely horrible."

"Well, of course. If I'm not, I ain't trying hard enough."

Dodger left her luxury suite laughing his head off, strutting like he owned the place, but before he was out the door Georgette suddenly cried, "Wait just a moment!" She cleared her throat. "Not that I care, I have so many suitors, but… has Alonzo asked about me?"

"Tito?" He almost pitied her for a moment. Dodger remembered that since spring, Tito had accompanied him a few times to the Foxworths' mansion to visit "his woman," but each time ended with him being bathed or put in a cute outfit or getting brushed. He ran off screaming for Frankie to save him every time. "I think ya scared him away permanently."

"Oh dear… I thought he enjoyed our little romps. Who doesn't like new clothes?"

"I'm sure ya'll be fine. Like ya said, ya have so many suitors."

Now he really did leave her suite, wondering if Tito had ever really loved her, or if he was only in it for the cigars. He was inclined towards the latter. Dodger yawned lazily and trotted down the hall. He smelled Oliver's feline scent to his right, and sure enough, his favorite cat was snoozing on the windowsill in the billiard room. Oliver was napping on the fuzzy green pool table. When he heard Dodger come in, he stretched his legs and casually kicked the white cute ball. It sunk a solid blue, rolled off, and sunk another solid.

"Good shot, kid." Dodger stood on his back legs, paws on the table.

"Thanks," Oliver yawned. He sniffed his best friend. "You smell like Georgette. Don't tell me you were bothering her again."

"Gotta take Miss Stuck-Up off her high horse once in a while, don't we?" He swiped at the billiard balls, trying to sink a stripe. "Bet tha Purebreds would love her to join them."

"The Purebreds? Who are they?"

Dodger accidentally sent the black 8-ball into a pocket.

"Oh, uh… nothing. Just tha kennel club set, y'know? Tha classy dog show purebreds, that's what I meant."

Oliver looked at him curiously, but didn't press the issue.

He went back to napping on the billiard table and Dodger slunk over to a black leather sofa, hopped up, and took a nap himself. A little rest would calm his beating heart. He chastised himself for bringing up that gang — he was here to forget about them, wasn't he? — and went back to remembering the funny face Georgette made when he ate her fancy chow.


Life with the Foxworths was really and truly great. Dodger had lived with them nearly three weeks now, and he couldn't imagine returning to his crazy old life.

David Foxworth took him on daily walks up and down Fifth Avenue and throughout Central Park, and they played ball together. Yes, the Artful Dodger's guilty pleasure was catching baseballs in his mouth. All around them, orange-and-brown leaves were falling from the trees; warm weather was a thing of the past. They were well into November.

When Dodger lay on the sofa, May Foxworth scratched his ears while reading a book. She spent more time doting over Georgette, but the lady was kind — unlike dear Georgie, who'd been giving him the silent treatment ever since he broke the news about Tito.

Jenny was gone to school during the week, but she always greeted Dodger when she hopped off the afternoon bus. Her therapy sessions had gone from weekly to monthly.

And of course, there was Oliver. His little brother. Dodger used to think stealing hotdogs and hitting on girls were the greatest joys in life, but he'd been so wrong.

Not everything was peachy between them. One evening a visitor came to the mansion.

"Uhh, can I help ya?" Dodger was in the downstairs library playing some notes on the black grand piano, and the window was propped open. He was surprised to see a strange female cat, a calico, hop up on the window ledge from the sidewalk like she'd been invited.

"I'm looking for Oliver," she mewed. "Could you go fetch him?"

"Sorry, I only fetch baseballs, tennis balls, and tha occasional stick."

"You're more talented than you look. Can you roll over and play dead, too?"

He was about to bark when the ginger cat in question came prancing into the library. His face lit up when he saw the visitor in the window. "Adena! You came back!"

"Hi, Ollie." The calico grinned. "I was in the neighborhood."

"You should stop by more often. Want to come inside?"

"Actually, I wondered if you wanted to come outside."

"Oh. I… I don't know. My owners wouldn't like it." Oliver looked at Adena so wistfully that it would've broken Dodger's heart, if he didn't dislike this girl cat so much. Oliver suddenly remembered his big brother was there, too. "But maybe if Dodger tags along!"

"Dodger?" She tilted her face. "As in the Artful Dodger?"

"Tha one and only," he huffed. "What's it to ya?"

"I'm surprised. I heard you were a cool street dog, not a house pet."

"With me, ya get tha best of both worlds." Dodger tossed his head like a teen rockstar.

He'd always enjoyed how well-known he was on the New York streets, how much every stray dog admired that rascally Artful Dodger — after all, he'd gotten twenty dogs to interrupt traffic with him for an impromptu dance number — but recent events had made him consider the downside of being famous. Dodger used to think all he had to worry about was the angry boyfriends of his flirtations, but that was before Ruscoe had pushed him into the river.

"Then again, maybe I ain't too keen on ya knowing my name."

Adena arched her back when he growled softly. "I didn't mean anything by it! Geez, I'm sorry. Don't get so worked up."

"Honestly, Dodger, she was only making conversation." Oliver glared at him.

Dodger had a few more things to say to Adena, a couple questions to ask, but he gave in and muttered a false apology. But he'd made it obvious that he wasn't accompanying Oliver anywhere with her. "I'm sorry, Adena… I don't think I'm going out today."

"That's okay, Ollie." She leaned forward on the windowsill and Oliver leaned up from the floor. Their pink noses touched. "We'll take a rain check."

The calico flashed a pretty smile for Oliver and an eye roll for Dodger. She leapt down from the window's ledge, over the flower beds, and landed daintily on the sidewalk. Oliver jumped onto the windowsill to watch her stroll down the block and cross the street. He feared a car would hit her, but Adena navigated the road perfectly. Soon she was disappearing into the autumn-colored wilderness of Central Park; the black, white, and orange of her fur blended with the piles of fallen leaves. Oliver whipped around.

"Why were you so rude to her? I know Adena's bit sarcastic, but she's nice to me. And it's nice to talk to another cat for once."

"What, ya sick of us dogs already?" Dodger chuckled, but Oliver wasn't smiling. "Look, I'm sorry, kid. I shouldn't have been so snappy, but don't ya think there's something suspicious about her?" He narrowed his eyes. "Why does she want ya to go out with her?"

"Uh, I don't know, maybe because she likes me?"

"Or maybe she wants to feed ya to her alley cat friends."

"Which of those sounds more likely?" Oliver scoffed. He leapt from the windowsill onto the nearest bookshelf, which he knew the Foxworths didn't want him doing. He curled up on an overturned copy of Oliver Twist, his back to his friend. He said nothing else.

Dodger groaned and left him alone in the library, heading down the hall to the living room sofa. He'd napped in it so often that it had a Dodger-shaped indentation.

He knew the kid's hormones would kick in one day — but why did he have to fall for such a sarcastic girl? Out of all the perfectly-nice cats in New York, Oliver just had to meet one with an attitude from Jersey Shore. Now it was rubbing off on the kid.

Dodger remembered the afternoon that Oliver had come back from playing in the park with Jenny. He had seen a mother cat with her new kittens hiding in the bushes, and that led sweet, innocent Oliver to ask his big brother where babies came from.

Which led Dodger to explain that they had certain... animal instincts.


"I'm home, fellas!" Jenny Foxworth burst into the living room and threw her arms around her ginger cat. Oliver mewed and nuzzled her, purring to see Jenny in such a good mood.

After she hugged him, it was Dodger's turn. "I'm so glad you're staying with us." Jenny wore a guilty grin. "I don't really want you to go back to Fagin. I know that's wrong, but it's true. Hope you don't mind." She scratched under his chin.

From the way he woofed, it seemed Dodger didn't mind in the least.

"How was therapy today, dear?" Mrs. Foxworth came into the room with a glass of lemonade for her daughter. She led her into the kitchen for lunch.

"It was great! I told her that we adopted Dodger, and that I haven't had a nightmare in weeks, and she said I was making really good progress."

"Oh, that's wonderful! I'm so proud of you, sweetheart."

"Proud enough for me to skip my studies today?"

"I don't think so missy. Your algebra isn't going to learn itself."

When they were gone, it was just Oliver and Dodger in the living room, curled together on the sofa. Their argument over Adena the other day had quickly been forgotten, and they'd happily resumed chasing each other around the house. Dodger's ribs and back leg had healed, which meant he could head back to the streets whenever he wanted. But that was a funny thing.

"So, kid," he said, "what's this therapy place she's always going to?"

Oliver had known it was a matter of time before his big brother grew curious about it. "Well, it started a few days after her birthday party. I was sleeping on her bed when Jenny… she woke up screaming. She kept seeing Roscoe and DeSoto. She said she could smell Sykes's cigars. Her father threw all his out the next day." The cat wasn't upset about that, for he'd hated the smell. "When the nightmares didn't stop, they took her to get help."

"Poor girl," Dodger whimpered. "What kinda help is there?"

"She went to group therapy at first, but talking with other kids who'd been… you know, kidnapped… I think it made it worse. They they went through a lot of one-on-one therapists and finally found a good one." He snuggled the mutt. "But you've been the best by far."

"I do what I can." Dodger himself had dreamed of the Dobermans a few times — more often since meeting Ruscoe — but he'd grown up facing mean street dogs. He couldn't imagine what it was like for a little girl. "Fear is pretty horrible, ain't it?"

"We're all afraid of something," Oliver said. He looked out the window at the cloudless sky. "Sometimes when it storms really bad, I feel like I'm gonna wash away again."

"Ah, I'm sorry, kiddo. I get afraid sometimes too."

"Afraid of what?" Oliver paused, then quietly asked, "The Purebreds?"

Dodger's eyes went wide. "What? No, I told ya, I just meant — "

"You didn't mean show dogs, bro. I know you didn't."

"Okay, ya got me." He rolled over on the sofa to show his belly, admitting defeat. "Tha Purebreds are a gang of street dogs, mean ones, all pure-blooded whatevers. An old friend warned me about them, but I didn't listen. Thought they were a joke."

Dodger explained that he'd walked headfirst into Lower Manhattan to prove they weren't real but had been proved wrong himself. He told him about Club and Razor, and how he'd injured the German Shepherd when they were pups, then he got to the scary part.

"Ya ain't gonna believe this, but their leader is Roscoe's son. Calls himself Ruscoe, and he's out for revenge cause I insulted him when I took out his old man." Dodger shuddered at the thought of those yellow eyes, those sharp teeth. "He's a nightmare, kid. Had his gang chase me onto tha Brooklyn Bridge… then they pushed me into tha river. I barely survived."

Dodger used to make up stories about his wild and dangerous adventures on the streets to entertain the Company, back when they'd lived on the houseboat. Squirrels became flesh-eating carnivores. Taxi cabs became tanks of war. But now that Dodger had a real story where he'd almost died, it wasn't nearly as fun to tell anymore.

"Is that why you're happy here?" Oliver asked after a brief silence. "I thought you'd be restless for the streets, but since the Purebreds attacked… you're afraid of them."

"Whaddya talking about? Tha Dodge ain't afraid of no one."

"Yes, you are. And you'd be crazy not to be." The cat snuggled his chest warmly. He could hear his heartbeat racing. "The streets are dangerous. I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah… maybe I am afraid. Maybe I'm hiding from them."

"Why shouldn't you? This isn't your fight."

Dodger knew his little brother feared for him, knew he wanted him out of harm's way, but the statement gave him a sinking feeling in his chest. His stomach was in a knot. Dodger nuzzled the kid back but leapt off the sofa. He left the living room.

He walked through the kitchen, where he ate some kibble from bowls on the floor. He went to the library on the ground floor, where he could snooze or play piano. He poked his nose into the den, where the family watched TV and kept dog biscuits in a jar. He saw the backdoor that led to the patio, where he and Oliver sunbathed. He headed upstairs and glanced in the billiard room, where they had fun batting the balls around. He looked towards Georgette's suite, where he took amusement from bothering her. He glanced at the door to Jenny's bedroom, and further down the hall, her parents' room. A family that loved him.

What more could a dog want out of life?

"So what if I'm hiding?" he muttered. "This ain't my fight."

Oliver's intuition was spot on. Dodger was restless for the streets — he longed to stretch his legs on a car top, to steal a soft pretzel from a vendor, to slide down a construction pipe and leave his paw prints in wet cement, to dance to the roar of traffic and the hustle-and-bustle, to be footloose and collar-free — until he remembered the Purebreds.

Greedy, ugly, psychotic monsters with razor-sharp claws, dripping fangs. A gang of brutes, all of them hungry. They came at him, eyes burning, he knew his time had come...

He shook his head. Definitely not as fun to tell anymore.