Rusty wanted to be the most beloved dog in the world. He had a plan for it too. Every morning he trotted through town, tail high, ready to earn one more friend. But this morning the fruit seller turned her back. The children by the well hurried inside. A rust-colored dog cannot win hearts when nobody will look at him. He knew the cause. Mrs. Jones, the crabby old woman with round glasses and a gray bun, had been talking. She stood on her porch most days, arms crossed, telling anyone who passed that Rusty dug in her garden and frightened her cat. Some of it was even true. Now folks kept their distance, and Rusty's plan was falling apart one closed door at a time. He found Patricia at the ranch fence. She wore her cowboy hat and a red plaid shirt, and she scratched his ears like she always had. "Word's spreading, boy," she said. "Mrs. Jones says you're trouble. Folks believe her." Rusty pressed his head against her hand. He needed her to help him fix it. John came out from the barn, bearded and steady in his blue shirt. He carried a small wooden dog house with a bright red-and-green roof. "Been meaning to give him this," John said. "Snug little kennel. But a kennel won't stop gossip." He set it down and looked at Rusty. "You want folks to trust you? You show them who you are. Talk won't do it." Rusty understood. He could not argue with Mrs. Jones. He could only prove her wrong. So he waited near her porch, out of the flowerbeds, sitting still on the path. That afternoon Mrs. Jones came down her steps with a basket of laundry. Her foot caught the last stair. She lurched forward, and the basket flew. She grabbed the rail, but her glasses slipped off and skittered under the porch. "Blast it," she muttered, on her knees, patting the dirt. She could not see a thing. Rusty crawled beneath the porch. He found the glasses in the shadows and carried them out gently in his mouth. He set them down beside her hand. Mrs. Jones fumbled them on. She stared at him. "You," she said. Her mouth stayed tight. "Don't think this changes anything." She snatched up her basket and marched inside. But the neighbors had seen. The fruit seller had watched from her stall. The children had watched from the well. By evening the story had turned. Folks came to Patricia's fence to see the dog who helped mean old Mrs. Jones. They knelt and let Rusty lick their hands. Rusty had won the town back. Yet as he curled inside his new kennel that night, he heard Mrs. Jones on her porch again, louder now, angrier. She had a new plan of her own. And Rusty knew this was far from over.