Mountain Dog (11 page)

           another

steep

     mountain slope

before climbing

back uphill

one granite boulder

at a time

until I'm level and calm

instead of scrambling

and scared.

I don't know all the details

of how I'm going to feel

about losing Mom

and gaining a family

that's sort of unusual

but also pretty normal.

I do know how I feel

about Gabe—he's brave, goofy,

smart, silly, bouncy, and I love him

like a brother.

Gabe and Tío both help me enjoy

our first Thanksgiving

as a family.

With snow on the trees

that surround the corrals

of Cowboy Church, the forest

looks like it's draped in lace

or spiderwebs

or magic.

The wedding is months away,

so for now it's just me and Tío

and Gabe, and this feeling

of finally understanding

a few simple words

like safety

and hope.

At night, in the cabin,

while Gabe and I gaze

out the window at stars

I find myself wondering

if the lost-and-found hunter

will decide to stop killing

when he's not hungry,

now that he knows

how it feels to be lost

in the wild.

I hope the hound is healthy

and happy, and I hope I can really

learn math

so I can study science

in college, maybe even get into

veterinary school.

I could figure out new cures

for dog wounds, and learn how to heal

bear diseases and elephant injuries …

but I'll need great grades

in algebra and geometry,

all the tests of number courage

that stand between me

and my future.

I sleep with fine dreams at night—

running dreams—racing toward

something happy, instead of running

away from fangs and claws.…

Then, on a cold, clear morning

between Thanksgiving and Christmas,

there's another burst of amazement

in my life, an unexpected gift.

Magic, real, living, breathing

trail magic—a puppy!

Gabe is already six. He can only work

for a few more years, so Tío has decided

that I should help raise our family's

next hero, a puppy that will need

nearly two years of training

before it can rescue the lost.

Quickly, I figure out the math.

If we start teaching a puppy now,

it will be six when I reach eighteen,

the wizardly number

that will make me an adult,

allowing me to join a real search-and-rescue team.

12
+
6. It's so hard to believe.

In just 3
+
3 years I'll be able

to volunteer as a SAR dog handler,

instead of a make-believe victim

who hides.

Choosing a puppy is an art.

The lowland animal shelter

is so crowded with homeless dogs

that I have to remember: looks

don't matter! Cute and cuddly

or bony and rat-haired, it's the nose

we need, along with a brave,

loyal temperament.

Sorrowful eyes. Mournful whines.

So many lonely dogs, all hoping

to be adopted! I wish we could

take them all.

We have to choose.

It's part of adult life, this constant

narrowing of wild wishes

down to one calm task

at a time.

Tío shows me how to follow

the scientific process of puppy testing.

We have to figure out which pups

are calm enough to let us teach them,

curious enough to crave work-play,

bold enough to explore,

and attentive enough to persist,

no matter how challenging

the hide-and-seek-game.

Puppy testing is the best work-fun

I've ever had in my 6
+
6 years.

At the back of my excited mind,

I'm already writing an article

for the school paper,

and a poem for my blog.

There's no rule that says

a scientist can't also

love words.

Puppy testing is simple—

I cradle each pup to see

if it's friendly and trusting.

Then, since a SAR dog can't fear

sudden movements—umbrellas,

crumpled sheets of tumbling paper,

or spooky, windblown plastic bags—

we test their courage. And we play!

We check to see which puppies

love to chase toys,

and which won't give up

in a long tug-of-war game,

but we also need a calm pup

that knows how to rest when tired,

not a nervous one that acts crazy.

We scratch bellies, pat heads,

and press down on paws with our fingers

to see how each puppy reacts

to being touched, rubbed, hugged,

and loved—a SAR dog can't be mean.

Aggressive dogs aren't allowed

to do search-and-rescue work.

Bullies aren't qualified

to be heroes.

We keep score.

We assign numbers.

Tío trusts me with the

scientific math.

The highest puppy test score

goes to a brave, focused,

curious, wolf-eyed splash

of sun-yellow fur.

She's three months old.

Her stumpy tail and yellow color

mean she's probably a mix

of supersmart Australian shepherd

and energetically friendly

golden retriever.

When we choose her, the surprise

isn't over yet—with a satisfied grin,

Tío writes my name on all

the adoption papers! I officially

have my own dog now. I'm considered

responsible. I'm practically

a grown-up.

Then comes the naming.

Short sounds, to make it easy

for the dog to learn, and maybe

a human name, to remind

everyone my puppy meets

that dogs need the same

love and care

as people.

I don't want a name that rhymes

with NO or BAD, or a confusing sound

that rhymes with any command.

I try out dozens of girls' names.

Summer? Too long. Dawn?

Not quite bright enough

for her soft golden fur.

Then it strikes me—I'm not limited

to English. Tío knows Spanish.

He can teach me. By next year's

Hispanic Heritage Month,

would I be halfway fluent?

Could I speak to my class

about learning my family's

language? Would I start

to feel like a part of two

natural places

at once?

We're still in the shelter, playing

with my newly adopted SAR pup,

when I start asking Tío to suggest

one-syllable island sounds.

He gives me Paz. Peace.

Mar, Sea.

Miel. Honey.

Luz. Light.

As soon as I hear that last one,

I know it's perfect. Luz sounds

exactly like this gold frizz of fur.

Luz and the Trail Beast.

I hope Gabe will like Luz—she's

bouncy and playful, he'll never

feel old, as long as we're all

walking

or running

or searching

together.…

From now on, I expect

only good dreams.

 

38

GABE THE DOG

FULL MOON

The yellow puppy's milky scent rhymes

with roundness, and the sound of her name

almost rhymes with moon, and when I sing, she sings,

and she understands chase games,

so we're friends, but I'm older,

so I get to teach her

all about life.

 

39

LUZ THE DOG

FINDING HOME

In my other life there were mean kids.

I was called hey mutt, but now I'm Luz,

and I have my own boy who takes me

to puppy obedience kindergarten

at the dog-and-horse church

and who lives with me in a house

with a man and a big dog in a forest

where I sniff

sniff

      sniff

sniff

as I follow little footprint trails that always

lead me back to my boy whose scent

rhymes with home.

 

HOW TO STAY FOUND IN THE WONDROUS WOODS

BY GABE, LUZ, AND TONY

Never hike alone.

Tell someone where you're going, and how long you'll be gone.

Stay on marked trails.

Take plenty of water and high-energy foods.

Make sure the adults who go with you have the right equipment (GPS, satellite phone).