Bailey's Story (11 page)

I stayed close to my boy while Dad talked to him, and Mom talked to him, and Grandpa talked to him some more. Grandma only kissed him, and rubbed his hair, and kissed him again.

The boy kept his head down. I knew what a scolding was, and I knew one was happening now. But nobody even mentioned the name Flare! How could that be? It was because nobody else had been there to see Flare run away, I realized. Nobody knew Flare was a bad horse. They all thought it was the boy's fault that we had gotten lost.

I was angry enough to want to go outside and bite the horse, but I didn't, of course. The thing was huge. Instead, I put my head on Ethan's knee. At least the boy had me.

After all the talking was over, the girl, Hannah, came to visit. She and Ethan sat on the porch and didn't talk much, just sort of mumbled and looked away from each other.

“Were you scared?” Hannah asked.

“No,” the boy said.

“I would have been scared.”

“Well, I wasn't.”

“Did you get cold at night?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

I looked from the boy to the girl, keeping my ears cocked for words like “Bailey,” “car ride,” or “treat.” But I heard nothing like that, so I lay down between them and sighed. Hannah reached over to rub behind my ears.

Not everyone rubs behind the ears in just the right way. Some people are too rough; some do it so lightly it tickles. And almost nobody does it for long enough. But Hannah was naturally talented at ear rubbing. She was so good at it that I rolled over so she could try a tummy rub, too.

I decided that I liked this girl. I wished she'd visit more often. Maybe she could bring more of those chocolate treats.

Life at the farm went back to normal once Ethan was home again. And then, long before I was ready, Mom packed and we took the car ride that meant school was coming. When we pulled in the driveway at home, several of the children in the neighborhood came running. Chelsea was there, but Marshmallow wasn't with her, and when Ethan took me over to her yard a few days later, all of Marshmallow's smells were old and fading. Chelsea cried a little, and I put my head in her lap. She hugged me.

I wished Marshmallow would come out so that we could chase and wrestle, but she didn't.

That winter, about the time when Dad put a tree in the living room for Merry Christmas, Chelsea got a new puppy. They named her Duchess.

Duchess liked to play. And play. And play. She liked it so much that there were times I got annoyed if her sharp little teeth sank into my ear or pulled too hard at my fur. Then I'd give her a quick growl to make her stop. She'd blink at me with an innocent, puzzled face, and back off for a few seconds before she seemed to decide that I couldn't have meant it. And she'd leap at me again.

It was very irritating. I like playtime as much as the next dog, but sometimes a dog just wants to lie still near his boy.

In the spring, the boy kept saying “go-kart.” In fact, all the children in the neighborhood kept saying it. And they spent a lot of time working with wood, sawing and hammering and totally ignoring their dogs.

Dad and Ethan went to the garage every evening, and the two of them were so busy out there that, finally, I actually went into Ethan's closet and dug out that horrible flip. I brought it to the garage and laid it at his feet. Surely
that
would make him look up from those stupid pieces of wood!

But it didn't. I could have howled with frustration.

“See my go-kart, Bailey?” was all he said to me. “It's going to go fast.”

Finally, one sunny day, the boy put the tools away. He opened up the garage door and rode the go-kart like a sled down the driveway.

I trotted beside him, thinking that we'd certainly been through a lot of bother just to go from the garage door to the street. But when he got there, Ethan got out of the go-kart and carried it back up to the garage to play with it some more!

I just could not see the point of all this. At least with the flip there was something you could chew.

A week or so later, on a day when there was no school, all the kids in the neighborhood got out their go-karts and brought them to the hill a few blocks away, where we went in the winter to go sledding. Duchess was too young to come with us, but I went along with my boy.

Todd was there, and he laughed and said something about the go-kart that Chelsea was pushing. I could tell by the way she turned her head away that her feelings were hurt.

When all the children lined up their go-karts at the top of the hill, Todd's was next to Ethan's. What happened next was very startling.

Someone yelled, “Go!” and all the go-karts moved at once! I was so surprised that, for a moment or two, I forgot to chase them.

The karts were bumping and rolling down the slope, going faster and faster. Todd had braced his feet on the ground to give his go-kart a big shove as he started, and he was in front. Chelsea's kart was bumbling along near the back. Ethan's was gathering speed and getting closer to Todd's.

I headed out after them, running as fast as I could to catch up with my boy. Finally, I understood what all the hammering and sawing and sanding was for. It was just like sledding, but without snow. It meant that all of us could go fast together!

I galloped along, wind flapping my ears, my tongue hanging out. I passed one kart after another. Then I was racing right behind Ethan. The only kart in front of his was Todd's.

At the bottom of the hill, Billy, Ethan's friend who smelled of peanut butter, was standing with a flag on a stick. Ethan's cart (and Todd's, too) was headed straight for him.

Just like I did in the winter, when the boy was lying on his sled, I leaped, landing right on the back of Ethan's go-kart. The go-kart was a little trickier than the sled. Ethan was sitting up, not lying down, so I couldn't land on him. I flopped against his back and the kart lurched under us. “Bailey!” Ethan yelled. But he was laughing.

My weight and the force of my jump pushed his kart ahead faster than ever. We whizzed past Todd and then past Billy, who waved his flag. He must be having fun, too.

The ground leveled out, and our kart slowed and stopped. Ethan squirmed around to hug me. “Good dog, Bailey!” he told me. I wagged. Were we going to do it again?

All the other go-karts rolled up behind us, followed by the rest of the children, yelling and laughing. Billy came over and held Ethan's hand up in the air. He dropped the stick with the flag on it, and I picked it up, shaking it, dancing around and daring anyone to try and take it from me.

“Not fair, not fair!” Todd shouted.

The crowd of children grew quiet. A hot fury poured off Todd. He pushed other children aside and stood facing Ethan.

“The dog jumped on the kart! That's why you won. That doesn't count,” Todd insisted.

“So what? Bailey was just playing,” Chelsea said. She tensed as Todd moved his furious gaze to her.

“I would have caught you anyway,” Ethan said.

“Everybody who says Todd's right, say ‘aye!'” Billy called.

“Aye!” shouted Todd. But he shouted it alone, and as he looked around, his anger doubled.

“Everybody who says Ethan won, say ‘nay,'” Billy said.

“Nay!” the rest of the children all shouted. It was so loud that I dropped my stick in surprise. Ethan grinned, not taking his eyes off Todd.

Todd took a step forward. His fist bunched up and he swung, hitting Ethan right in the center of the chest. Ethan jumped back, ducking a little, and then he lunged forward and tackled Todd. The two of them fell to the ground.

“Fight!” Billy yelled.

Ethan and Todd rolled over the ground together. I knew about wrestling, but when dogs tussled, there was no anger, no desire to hurt. Here it was different.

I jumped forward, but Chelsea reached out to grab my collar. “No, Bailey. Stay!” she told me.

I squirmed and twisted, trying to slip loose. I liked Chelsea, but she didn't get to tell me to stay when my boy needed me!

Ethan was soon sitting on top of Todd, his hands braced on the other boy's shoulders. “You give?” Ethan demanded.

Todd looked away. Waves of humiliation and hate wafted off of him. Finally, he nodded. Ethan got off him and both boys got up, slapping dirt from their pants. Chelsea's hand slackened on my collar.

I felt the sudden surge of rage from Todd, and he lunged, slamming both his hands on Ethan's shoulders. Ethan staggered and almost fell.

I was there beside him, ready to defend him. Ethan straightened up slowly. He put a hand on my neck.

Ethan looked at Todd. Then Billy stepped forward.

“No,” Billy said. “You gave in, Todd. That's it.”

“No,” Chelsea said.

“No,” some of the other children said. “No.”

Todd looked around. Then he turned away, his fists clenched at his sides. Without speaking, without looking at anyone, he picked up his go-kart and headed back up the hill.

Once Todd was gone, the rest of the children dragged their karts back up the hill and rode them down, again and again. I rode with Ethan each time.

That night, Ethan was excited at dinner, talking rapidly to Mom and Dad, who smiled as they listened. It took the boy a long time to fall asleep, and after he finally did, he was restless enough that, at last, I slid off the bed to lie on the floor. This meant I wasn't deeply asleep when I heard a huge crash from downstairs.

“What was that?” the boy asked, sitting bolt upright in bed. He threw the covers back as lights came on outside the bedroom door.

“Ethan, stay in your room,” Dad called from the hallway. His voice was tight; he was tense, angry, and afraid. “Bailey, come.”

Obediently, I trotted downstairs after Dad. He moved cautiously and turned on the lights in the living room. “Who's there?” he asked loudly.

The curtains that hung on either side of the front window blew in the wind. “Don't come down with bare feet!” Dad shouted.

“What is it?” Mom asked from the top of the stairs.

“Someone threw a rock through our window. Stay back, Bailey.”

As Dad went out into the hall for a pair of shoes, I sniffed at the shards of glass on the floor. In among them was a rock. When I put my nose to it, I instantly recognized the smell.

Todd.

 

15

A year or so later, in the spring, Smokey the cat got sick. He lay around moaning and didn't protest when I put my nose down in his face to find out what was wrong. I could smell sickness, but even more than that, I could smell exhaustion. He was worn-out, his small body soft and limp. I licked him between the ears.

Mom opened a can of delicious tuna, but Smokey just turned his face away from it. So I helped by finishing it up. Then Mom took Smokey for a car ride. When they came back, she was sad. Probably it was because cats are no fun in a car.

A week or so later, Smokey died.

After dinner, the family went into the backyard, where Ethan had dug a big hole. I helped, of course. They wrapped Smokey's body in a blanket and covered it with dirt.

Ethan and Mom cried a little. I nuzzled both of them to remind them not to be sad. I was still there, after all, and obviously I was a much better pet than Smokey.

That summer we did not go to the farm at all. Ethan and some friends from the neighborhood would get up every day and go to people's houses, where they'd cut grass with loud lawn mowers. I would go with the boy each day—that was good! But he'd always tie my leash to a tree while he worked, and that wasn't so fun. I simply couldn't figure out why the boy wanted to push a loud, smelly lawn mower over the ground instead of roaming through the woods or playing Rescue Me in the pond.

When school started again, there were more changes. Mom would get home before Ethan did and come to let me in. The boy would arrive late, just before dinner, smelling of dirt, sweat, and grass. On some nights we'd all pile into the car and go to a big yard, where Ethan would play chase and fetch on a wide lawn with a lot of other boys. “Hey, Bailey, want to come to the football game?” Ethan would ask.

One very odd thing about this game was that a lot of people would sit or stand around, and they'd all yell and scream for no reason at all. It was confusing, but the tide of excitement that swept up from all those people made me wag frantically and tug at my leash.

The first time I went to one of the games, I spotted Ethan, jumping up to grab a ball in midair. Another boy grabbed him, and they both rolled on the grass.

As quick as I could, I leaped forward, and my leash slipped out of Mom's hand. “Bailey!” she shouted.

I dodged around a group of girls, jumped over a family sitting on the ground, and tore onto the big lawn to play with my boy.

The ball had rolled out of Ethan's hands when he'd hit the ground. I grabbed it. It tasted a lot like the flip—yuck!—and was big for my mouth, but when I got my teeth into it pretty good, it sank down to a better size.