A Dog's Purpose (11 page)

We wound up going back home, and I was delighted to reacquaint myself with the kids and dogs in the neighborhood, but not Smokey. We played games and I chased balls and wrestled with my friend Marshmallow, so busy having fun I was completely unprepared for the morning a few days later when we all got up early and I found myself being unceremoniously led out to the garage. I immediately ran out the dog door and confirmed that Ethan and Mom were both leaving, Ethan taking off with the rest of the children in the same yellow bus.

Well, this was intolerable. I barked for a while, and from down the street Marshmallow answered, so we barked at each other, but that didn’t help as much as you’d think. I moodily went back into the garage, sniffing with disdain at the doghouse. I would
not
spend my day in there, I decided, even though it was the softest place around.

I saw Smokey’s feet underneath the door and put my nose to the crack and inhaled his scent, letting out a frustrated sigh. I didn’t sense a lot of sympathy coming from him.

Because I was a big dog now, the doorknob was easily within
reach, and it occurred to me that there was something I could do about my predicament. I put my paws on the door, took the knob in my mouth, and twisted it.

Nothing happened, but I kept trying, and eventually, with a small click, the door fell open!

Smokey had been sitting on the other side, probably laughing, but when I saw him he sure wasn’t laughing anymore. His pupils grew dark and he turned and fled, so naturally I followed him, skittering around the corner and barking when he leaped up on the counter.

It was much better in the house. The night before, pizza dinner had arrived at the front door in a long, flat box, which was still sitting on the counter and therefore easily accessible. I pulled it onto the floor and ate the delicious cardboard, shredding the less flavorful parts, while Smokey watched in feigned disgust. Then I ate a can of his cat food, licking the metal clean.

Normally, I wasn’t allowed to sleep on the couch, but I couldn’t see any reason to follow that rule, since clearly everything had changed now that I was inside the house by myself. I settled in for a nice nap, my head on a soft pillow, the sun warm on my back.

Sometime later, I realized the sun had moved, which was most inconvenient, and I changed positions on the couch, groaning.

Not long after that, I heard the distinctive sound of one of the kitchen cupboards opening and raced in to see what was happening. Smokey was on the counter and had reached up and opened a door, which I thought was extremely enterprising of him. I watched intently as he leaped inside the cupboard, his tiny nose sniffing at the delicious items inside. He looked down at me, calculating something.

I decided to bite at the base of my tail a bit, and when I
turned back I was intrigued to see that Smokey was batting at a bag of food. He hit it once, twice, and on the third smack toppled the thing out of the cupboard and onto the floor!

I bit through the plastic and into some salty crunchy things, which I ate hurriedly in case Smokey tried to come down for his share. He watched impassively from his perch and then smacked down another bag, full of sweet, doughy rolls.

I decided then and there that I had been wrong about Smokey all along. I almost felt bad about eating his cat food earlier, though it was hardly my fault that he didn’t finish his meal when it was served. What did he expect would happen?

I couldn’t open the cupboards myself; the science somehow escaped me. I did, however, manage to snag a loaf of bread and pull it off the counter, carefully removing it from the package, which I chewed separately. The trash can in the kitchen didn’t have a lid, so it was easy to access, though a few of the items—some bitter black grit that coated my tongue when I gave it an experimental lick, along with eggshells, and plastic containers—were inedible. I chewed the plastic anyway.

I was outside waiting when the bus pulled up, and although Chelsea and Todd both got off, there was no sign of the boy, which meant he would be arriving home with Mom. I went back into the house and pulled some shoes out of Mom’s closet, though I didn’t chew on them much because I was feeling pretty lethargic from all of the snacks Smokey had given me. I stood in the living room, trying to decide whether to lie on the couch, which no longer had any sun on it at all, or lie in the patch of sun on the carpet. It was a tough decision, and when I finally chose the sun I lay down uneasily, not sure I’d picked the right thing.

When Mom’s car door slammed I tore through the house
into the garage and was out the dog door in an instant, wagging at the fence so no one would be the wiser. Ethan ran straight over to me and came into the yard to play with me while Mom went up the walk, her shoes clicking.

“I missed you, Bailey! Did you have fun today?” the boy asked me, scratching under my chin. We gazed at each other in adoration.

“Ethan! Come look what Bailey did!”

At the sound of my name, pronounced so sternly, my ears fell. Somehow, Smokey and I had been found out.

Ethan and I went into the house and I approached Mom with my tail in full wag so she’d forgive me. She was holding one of the shredded bags in her hand.

“The door to the garage was open. Look what he did,” Mom said. “Bailey, you are a bad dog. A bad dog.”

I hung my head. Though I’d technically done nothing wrong, I realized that Mom was mad at me. Ethan was, too, particularly when he started to pick up the bits of plastic off the floor.

“How in the world did he even get up on the counter? He must have jumped,” Mom said.

“You are a bad dog, a bad, bad dog, Bailey,” Ethan told me again.

Smokey strolled in, leaping languidly onto the counter. I gave him a glum look—he was a bad cat, a bad, bad cat.

Amazingly, no one said anything to Smokey about his role as instigator. Instead, they gave him a fresh can of food! I sat expectantly, figuring I should at least get a dog biscuit, but everyone was still giving me cross looks.

Mom pushed a mop around on the floor, and the boy carried a bag of trash out into the garage.

“Bailey, that was bad,” the boy whispered to me again. Apparently, everyone was having a much harder time getting over the incident than I was.

I was still in the kitchen when I heard Mom shriek, “Bailey!” from the back of the house.

I guessed she had found her shoes.

Over the course of the next year or two, I noticed that when the children all played together Todd was often excluded. When he came around, an uneasiness went through the children, a mood change that Marshmallow and I could sense as easily as if one of them had screamed. Girls usually turned their backs on Todd, and the boys accepted him into their games with a noticeable reluctance. Ethan never went over to Todd’s house anymore.

Todd’s older brother, Drake, rarely came outside except to get in his car and drive away, though Linda soon learned to ride a bicycle and pedaled it down the street to be with little girls her age almost every day.

I took my cue from Ethan and never went near Todd again, though one snowy night when I was out in the backyard doing
my business before bed I could smell him standing on the other side of the fence, back in some trees. I let out a warning bark and was pretty pleased when I heard him turn around and run away.

I didn’t much care for the concept of school, which was what happened most mornings at home. I liked it better when summer came and Mom and Ethan no longer had school and we would go to the Farm to live with Grandpa and Grandma.

Whenever I arrived at the Farm I took off at a run, checking to see what was different and what was the same, marking my territory, and reacquainting myself with Flare the horse, the mysterious black cat in the barn, and the ducks, who had irresponsibly decided to produce another batch of ducklings. I often could smell the skunk in the woods but, mindful of the unpleasantness of our last meetings, elected not to chase her down. If she wanted to play, she knew where to find me.

One summer night the whole family sat with me in the living room far past normal bedtime and everyone was excited, though Mom and Grandma were also afraid. And then they yelled and cheered and Grandpa cried and I barked, swept up in all the emotions. Humans are so much more complex than dogs, with such a broad range of feelings—though there were many times I missed the Yard, for the most part I was now living a far richer life, even though I often didn’t know what was going on. Ethan took me out into the night and gazed at the sky. “There’s a man on the moon right now, Bailey. See the moon? Someday, I’ll go there, too.”

He radiated such happiness I raced over and got a stick for him to throw for me. He laughed.

“Don’t worry, Bailey. I’ll take you with me when I go.”

Sometimes Grandpa would go for a car ride into town and
the boy and I would accompany him. Before long I had memorized a scent map of the entire trip—there was a moist smell that carried with it the distinct odor of stupid ducks and delicious rotting fish, followed a few minutes later by a powerfully pungent scent that filled the car.

“Phew,” Ethan often said.

“That’s the goat ranch,” Grandpa would always reply.

With my head out the window I often spied the goats who were responsible for all the wonderful smells, and I would bark at them, though they were so dumb they never once fled in terror but just stood there, staring like Flare the horse.

Soon after the goat ranch a great rattle would seize the car as we drove over a wooden bridge and I would start wagging then, because I loved car rides to town and the banging rumble noise meant we were almost there.

Grandpa liked to go to a place where he sat in a chair and a man played with his hair, and Ethan would get bored and we’d wind up walking up and down the streets, looking at windows and hoping to meet other dogs, which I assumed was the reason we were in town in the first place. The best location for dogs was in the park, which was a big grassy area where people sat on blankets. There was a pond, but the boy didn’t want me to swim in it.

Everywhere in town I could smell the goat ranch—if I ever needed to catch my bearings, I would just turn my nose until the scent was the strongest, and that way lay home.

One day we were in the park and an older boy was throwing a plastic toy for his dog to catch. The dog was a black female, short, and all business—when I trotted up to her she completely ignored me, her eyes on the plastic toy, which was a thin, brightly colored disk. It would soar through the air and she would run and leap and snag it before it even touched the ground, which I
suppose was a pretty impressive trick if you liked that sort of thing.

“What do you think, Bailey? Do you want to do that, boy?” Ethan asked me. His eyes were shining as he watched the little dog catch the plastic disk, and when we got home he went right to his room and got busy making what he called the “flip.”

“It’s like a cross between a boomerang, a Frisbee, and a baseball,” he told Grandpa. “It will fly twice as far, because the ball gives it weight, see?”

I sniffed at the object, which had been a perfectly good football before Ethan cut it up and asked Grandma to put new stitches in it. “Come on, Bailey!” the boy shouted.

We raced outside. “How much money can you make on an invention like this?” the boy asked his grandpa.

“Let’s just see how she flies,” Grandpa observed.

“Okay, ready, Bailey? Ready?”

I took this to mean that something was about to happen and stood alertly. The boy cranked his arm back and flung the flip into the air, where it twisted and fell from the sky as if it had hit something.

I trotted off the porch and went over to sniff it.

“Bring the flip, Bailey!” the boy called.

Gingerly I picked the thing up. I remembered the short dog chasing the elegant flying disk in the park and felt a pang of envy. I took it back over to where the boy was standing and spat it out.

“Not aerodynamic,” Grandpa was saying. “Too much resistance.”

“I just need to throw it right,” the boy said.

Grandpa went back inside, and for the next hour the boy practiced throwing the flip out into the yard and I brought it
back. I could sense a building despair in him, so one time when he threw the flip and it flopped to the ground I brought him back a stick instead. “No, Bailey,” he said sadly. “The flip. Get the flip.”

I barked, wagging, trying to get him to see just how fun the stick could be if he would give it a chance.

“Bailey! The flip!”

And then someone said, “Hi.”

It was a girl Ethan’s age. I trotted over to her, wagging, and she petted me on the head. In one hand she carried a covered basket containing some sweet-smelling breads, which really got my attention. I sat down, looking as attractive as possible so she’d hand over what was in her basket. “What’s your name, girl?” she asked me.

“He’s a boy,” Ethan said. “Name is Bailey.”

I looked over at the boy because he said my name and saw that he was acting strange. It was almost as if he were afraid, but not exactly, though he had taken a half step back when he saw her. I looked back at the girl, who I really liked because of the rich-smelling biscuits in her basket.