Mountain Dog (4 page)

wandered away from

an apple orchard,

and now

it's nighttime,

and she's still lost.

Her little dog is gone too.

Maybe they went exploring

together.

If Tío and Gabe can't

find her …

Well, I don't even want

to think about it.

So we drive to a farm

where volunteers gather

around a sheriff, listening

to instructions.

Tío tells me to stay close,

then introduces me to a woman

around his age. She has a nice smile,

and I can tell that my uncle

really likes her.

But she turns out to be

loud Gracie's grandma,

the bear-behavior specialist

who has a reputation

for courage.

Gracie is right beside her, just as jumpy

and exuberant as Gabe. I don't want to stay

at the sheriff's command-post table,

even though Gracie calls it base camp,

as if we're getting ready to climb

the world's tallest mountain.

I need to get away.

I want to be out
there
, searching

with Tío and his hero-dog, moving

through the whispery spring leaves,

where instead of ripe red fruit

on the trees there are just

moon white

apple flowers

glowing.

With a silvery bell on his collar

and Halloween light sticks

fitted into tabs on his bright

orange vest, Gabe sounds

like Christmas and looks

like a shooting star

as he streaks

through the darkness

of night

making light

   seem like something alive

and growing.…

There are horsemen, too,

and horsewomen, a mounted posse

like the ones in old cowboy movies,

and modern people driving ATVs,

all-terrain vehicles that resemble

slow golf carts but zip and dart

like speeding dirt bikes.

Teams of searchers head out

in every direction.

Ground pounders! a loud voice

proclaims. Gracie. Trumpeting.

Knowing it all. Explaining.

If I wasn't so eager to understand

absolutely everything about this urgent

search for a lost kid,

I'd ignore her noisy voice,

but Gracie flashes her press pass—

Great story! she booms.

Great headline!

Soon I've learned that ground pounders

are volunteers who search on foot

without dogs, horses, or vehicles,

just headlamps, flashlights,

and their voices, shouting

the little girl's name

as they go,

until they vanish

beyond streaks of moonlight.

I know I'm supposed to stay close

to Gracie's grandma, but Gabe

is out there, leading Tío

under gnarled trees

with twisted branches

that look like natural statues

of beasts.

I'm not afraid to solve

this kind of eerie problem.

It's not math or meanness.

It's a mystery, and I need to help,

so when Gracie and B.B. are looking

the other way, I sneak

away

quietly

creeping

silently

wondering

how terrible

my punishment

will be, once my uncle

finally realizes

that I've disobeyed.

By the time Tío notices

that I'm right beside him,

he's as focused as a laser beam,

following Gabe, who races ahead

sniffing

in a zigzag pattern

solving

the mystery

searching for invisible

scent clues.

Gabe leads us beyond apple trees

to huge oaks, where an owl hoots

in shivery air, and my drumbeat heart

pounds with hope!

Movement. A silhouette.

Growling sounds. Fox? Coyote?

Bobcat? No! It's a dog, tiny

and white, fuzzy but tough

as it lunges and yaps at Gabe.

The little girl's pup stands his ground,

defending, protecting. He's a brave,

rabbit-size guard dog,

and close behind him, the girl

is half-hidden by a droopy branch,

her round face radiant

in moonlight.

Tío wakes her, talks to her,

checks her for injuries, then calls

the sheriff on his two-way radio,

to report the good news.

Somehow, at the exact same time,

he manages to throw a ball for Gabe

and reward him with praise

delivered in a high, squeaky voice

that sounds like pure excitement.

Hugging her dog, the girl looks

so calm that I wonder if she knew

she was lost.

I can imagine how she feels.

I used to wander all over the city,

following loyal puppies wherever

they roamed.

Back at base camp, the toddler's parents

cry and hug her, then they hug me,

and Gabe and Tío, and especially

the fuzzy pup.

I love you, the mother tells me

in two languages.
Te quiero.
Spanish.

A sad-happy sound that I haven't heard

since I was little, when Mom wasn't

quite so completely

lost.

 

8

GABE THE DOG

HIDE-AND-SEEK

The tiny girl's scent rhymes with home. Before the woods, back in the apple place, I could already follow her aroma of home rhyme. There is a skin smell, and baby sweat, soap, pillow, blanket, milk from her breath, and a baking-swirl of floating kitchen scents, fluffy cake made with stirred streaks of sugar, flour, salt, butter, and orchids—wild orchids—dry vanilla pods from some faraway forest.

There's the metal and fuel smell of the oven that baked the cake, and the fragrance of safety the girl felt while she was eating, before she followed her dog past the apple place to hide.

Her feet smell like orchard, but her hands are pure puppy, and she isn't afraid, not even when Leo, my wonderful Leo, changes his voice from ordinary to play-with-me!

It's that yipping, playful-workful, wild-pack-of-dogs-hunting voice that I love most of all, even more than chasing roundness, or sniffing old apple scraps on the orchard floor. It's the voice that makes me forget to keep wondering why my Leo couldn't find the girl's scent trail himself. I don't understand human noses.

 

9

TONY THE BOY

FENCES

The quiet woods come alive

at midnight. On our way back

to the cabin, with the windows

of the truck wide open,

Gabe sniffs wild-animal smells

in the breeze. I catch a glimpse

of a deer, and there are cries

from owls

and coyotes,

and smaller noises, too,

a buzz of insects, the clang

of bullfrogs.

A black bear glides across the road,

framed by the glow of our headlights.

My uncle smiles and says he knows

this particular bear

because it's a friend

of Gracie's beautiful

grandma.

Tío is a mystery. Will I ever

understand him? Does he want

to talk about B.B.? Is he in love?

The bear passes as swiftly

as one of Mom's worst moods.

Will everything always feel

so dangerous?

Later, in the cabin, my uncle

talks to me about sneaking out to join

the search. Volunteers have to be

eighteen and expertly trained,

tested and certified by county,

state, and federal agencies.

Risk. Insurance. Liability.

Responsibility.

Tío's stern lecture sounds

like a spelling list.

All I want to think about

is Gabe's heroic triumph,

the little girl's safety,

and her tiny dog's

loyalty.

I could make up my own

spelling test, put all the words

in one sentence: Canine trail angels

are intelligent, courageous,

amazing, magical …

but tough pit bulls and rough moms

can be ominous, unpredictable,

perilous,

and painful.

I accept my uncle's scolding in silence,

because I know I broke a big rule,

and Tío is still talking, explaining

that he needs to trust me.

When he's finished, he adds,

Do you have any questions,
mi'jo
,

anything at all?

Mi'jo. Mi hijo.
My son. My uncle

just called me son! Yes, I have lots

of questions, but the only one I suddenly

need to ask right away

is about the fighting dogs. Their safety

is my question. Those puppies were like

brothers to me. What happened to them

when Mom went to prison

and I came here?

Have they been adopted?

Do they have good homes

with patient foster parents

like Tío?

My uncle looks troubled.

He admits that the toughest dogs

might never find homes, but he also

assures me that the others

are safe now.

Safe now.

Safe.

My echoing mind almost misses

the chance to ask one more

big question: Why does B.B. study

scary bears? How did she learn

to be so beautifully

brave?

The answer is a surprise.

Tío explains that Gracie's grandma

was attacked a long time ago,

when she stepped in between

a mother bear and a cub.

The scars healed, so now she talks

to campers about bears, and she talks

to the bears about staying away

from campgrounds, trash cans,

and foolishly daring people.…

She isn't brave, Tío explains,

just educated and wise.

I want to ask more about the way

he looks at her, but I'm too shy

to talk about feelings.

The next day, at school,

I'm exhausted. Since the kids

in my class are different ages,

I get to work at my own pace.

Slowing down really helps.

If only there was some way

to make my shadowy

fear of the future

slow down too.

Maybe I would feel brave

in this classroom of strangers

if I had a loud voice like Gracie

and could ask nosy questions,

but I don't. I'm quiet

and scared,

so finally, I dare myself

to try

something new.

I accept the teacher's offer

to help Gracie write online articles

about search-and-rescue dogs

like Gabe—their elaborate training,

their dedicated handlers,

all the human-canine

teamwork

and courage.

I've seen a few of Gracie's articles,

and I don't know how I'll ever manage

to write in that confident tone,

so I just decide to write the way I think,

with bursts of alternating

dread

and hope.

Online, I study Gracie's choice

of topics. There's a funny piece

about a local robbery. Peaches

were stolen from a cabin. The sheriff

found evidence: a smashed window,

an overturned table, and a trail

of peach juice smeared

on huge paw prints

that proved the burglar

was a bear.

The next article is sad. Old folks

at a retirement home told Gracie

that the one thing that's changed

the most since they were young

is fences. They can remember

crossing mountains in any direction,

limited only by rocky cliffs,

wild rivers,

and time.

Now, at night, my dreams

are filled with the spiky fences

around fighting-dog kennels

and the electrified ones

around prisons

and the wall between Mom's mind

and mine.

Will there ever be any way

to leap or climb over

that invisible height?

At school, language-arts hour

is a relief from worries

and dream-fears

and math.

The poetry assignment feels

easy and free. Maybe words

are my strength.

I could turn out to be

a superhero

with secret

syllable powers.

I want to keep my poem quiet,

but Gracie volunteers to read

her verse out loud. It's a funny

rhymed poem about visiting

her parents in India

and making huge, fruity Popsicles

for elephants—each one has a funny,

way of eating

a bucket-size ice ball.