Strays (5 page)

As we left the courthouse, I could see Dad running at a full sprint to meet us on the stairs. He couldn't talk when he reached us; he was too out of breath. He put his hands on his knees and dramatically heaved his chest in and out.

“Did I make it?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said and looked to Mr. Spencer, hoping he'd take over condemning my dad for missing my court time. But Mr. Spencer just reached out his hand to shake Dad's and left it to me to do the talking.

“I can't even believe you,” I said, furious.

“I'm so sorry, Iris. It was supposed to be a quick check-in about the budget, but then someone whipped out a spreadsheet, and next thing I knew, we were doing an annual overview.”

“Why didn't you just leave? Why didn't you just tell them you had somewhere else to be?”

“I couldn't do that, Iris. With the promotion coming up, every action counts.”

There was no use even engaging him in conversation. It was clear that, once again, he had chosen work over me.

“What can I do to help?” he asked Mr. Spencer.

“We were just heading over to my office to choose a community service assignment,” said Mr. Spencer.

“How many hours did you get?” asked my dad.

“All summer,” I said.

“I'll walk you guys over there,” said Dad.

“Don't bother.”

“Iris.” Dad put his hand on my shoulder.

“I've made it this far on my own, Dad. The hard part is over. You can go back to work. I'll see you later.”

I headed toward Mr. Spencer's office, and my lawyer, taking my lead, followed me down the honey locust–lined street and around the corner to an old brick building. Dad set off for the parking lot.

When we arrived at his office, I had a seat in front of Mr. Spencer's scattered desk.

“Ah! The fax is already here. Let's take a look.” He began scanning the paper and muttering to himself. Empty candy wrappers covered his desk, along with piles upon piles of paper. I didn't understand how he got anything done in all that mess.

“Just like I thought, most of the slots have already been filled. Lots of teens postpone their hours until summer. Looks like it's either garbage collection or graffiti cleanup.”

“Garbage pickup, please, Mr. Spencer.”

“Great. I'll process this tonight, and you'll probably start your stint next week. Good luck to you, Iris.”

He shook my hand. I hoped I would never have to see him again.

*

At home, I gathered the envelopes from our mailbox. We never received anything fun in the mail—just bills and junk mail. The one piece of mail that I would be excited about next year would be a college acceptance letter.

Closing the metal lid of the mailbox triggered the neighbor's dog, who basically tried to attack me through the fence, lunging and thrashing, affirming my fear of these supposedly domesticated animals.

Inside, inspired by a nature show on the brown bear's hibernation patterns, I fell into a deep sleep.

Passed out on the couch, I dreamed of gavels and judges and jails. Keys clanged, and Mr. Spencer shoved papers to sign in my face. Amid the courthouse chaos, my mother sat still in a corner, watching me. She opened her arms, and I ran toward her, ready for a deep embrace, but when I reached her she disappeared, and I was left alone.

The house phone rang, jarring me awake. The machine beeped, and I heard Mr. Spencer's gravelly voice.

“Heya, Iris. Mr. Spencer here. Listen, I've got great news!”

Finally, someone with something good to report.

“There was an opening at Ruff Rehabilitation—the dog community service position I was telling you about that everyone wants. And guess what? I snagged it for you. Be cliffside at Natural Bridges Monday by one o'clock. You can thank me later.”

A
pparently my time in court had been more exhausting than I had realized—it was way past noon when I finally opened my eyes. Luckily summer school didn't start until the next week.

Was it all a dream, or had I really been assigned to community service work involving dogs? I forced myself out of bed and listened to Mr. Spencer's chipper voice on the machine again. To my major disappointment, it wasn't all a bad dream.

It was my reality.

There was hardly any coffee left in the pot (it was as though Dad were trying to punish me by finishing it all himself). I grabbed a pair of dirty jeans off the floor and threw on a sweatshirt. The dogs wouldn't care about my appearance. If I could just explain to whomever was in charge that I was absolutely the wrong person for this job, maybe they'd let me do office work or something in order to fulfill my community service requirement.

At Zachary's, my favorite breakfast spot on Pacific Avenue, I ordered their largest to-go cup of coffee. Even though the brew was better at Pergolesi, there was no way I was going to risk running into Ashley there. So much for my summer of free coffee.

I had the fortunate talent of being able to ride a bike one-handed so that my other hand could be free to swat at mosquitoes, gesticulate at bad drivers, or drink a cup of coffee.

Picking up speed down toward Ocean Avenue, I took a right, pedaling fast past families of bikers on vacation.

“Slow down!” a protective dad yelled.

But this was
my
bike lane. I couldn't help but count the number of dogs I passed as I zoomed by. Ten, eleven, twelve…ugh. They were everywhere.
Ubiquitous
, as Mrs. Schneider would say. (There were a few things I learned in school that year; for some reason, vocab stuck.)

When I got to Natural Bridges State Beach, I locked my bike to a stop sign post and raced full speed ahead to the community center. Why couldn't this gig have been somewhere private where we wouldn't be susceptible to public scrutiny? Would everyone who walked past know we were convicts? Or would they just think we were training our pets? If they made us wear fluorescent orange uniforms like those guys who picked up trash on the side of the road I would be so mortified. My palms started to sweat when I saw a circle of teens holding leashes attached to various-sized dogs. I recognized only one of the figures, standing there with a German shepherd. It was Hoodie Boy from school—part of that group that was always getting into trouble. I had now sunk to his level. His sweatshirt, as usual, was still drawn tightly around his face. I was so embarrassed to know someone there.

I slowed down my frantic pace, now trying to take as long as possible to avoid having to participate.

“You must be Iris!” a guy shouted from across the grass. “Come on over!” He waved me toward him. Everyone stared. I suddenly became self-conscious about everything: my hair, my walk, my choice of clothing. Were my arms swinging too much? Too little? I put my head down so my hair covered my face. I didn't want anyone to be able to “read me.”

“We were just getting acquainted. I'm Kevin.” He put his hand out. I had no choice but to shake it.

Kevin was not what I expected a dog rehabilitator to look like. He resembled a surfer more than anything else: long blond hair, super-tanned physique.

“Since you're late…”

“It wasn't my fault,” I lied, ready to make up some excuse about my dad losing my bike-lock key.

“Everyone got a chance to choose their dogs already,” Kevin said.

“Hey, I didn't get a choice!” said a huge, towering boy in an oversized plaid jacket and baggy pants that made him look even bigger.

“Randy, you
did
have a choice,” said Kevin.

“Yeah, between the Chihuahua and the peg leg. Lesser of two evils,” said Randy.

At the end of Randy's red leash was the ugliest thing I've ever seen—even worse than the dog I'd had to watch at the beach a few weeks earlier. The Chihuahua's fur was tattered, and it had an exaggerated underbite.

A girl with wild hair laughed at Randy. “You two are like yin and yang.”

They all laughed.

I took stock of my surroundings. Two girls. Two guys. And me. That made five of us suffering through the same summer stint. What had each of them done to land themselves here? And were they wondering the same about me?

“Let's go around and introduce ourselves,” said Kevin.

“Again?” complained Hoodie Boy. It was the first time I had actually heard him speak.

“I'm Kevin, your fearless leader. I'm here to help you train your dog. But more on that later. As you know, you all are now members of the most coveted community service gig out there. We like to keep the group small so you get a chance to really bond with your animal.”

Was this guy for real? I'd rather bond with a snake…a slug…a tarantula.

“I'm Randy, and I hope I don't fall on my dog because it won't survive.” The Chihuahua yapped away.

“Do you remember your dog's name?” asked Kevin.

“Tinkerbelle,” he said. “This is so ridiculous.”

At least I wasn't the only one who felt this way.

Next to Randy was a girl with a funky haircut: her brown hair long in front and short in back, with pink highlights. She wore a big army-green shirt that looked like it had gotten into a fight with a pair of scissors and lost. A quote on a patch sewn to her knee read,
Property is theft
.

“I'm Talbot, and this dog here is Garrett. He's part Doberman, part retriever.” The dog licked her face, and I could feel myself start to have a panic attack. “And
all
love.”

“Shelley,” said the quiet brunette. “Bruce,” she added as she looked down at the bulldog licking itself at her feet.

Last but not least was Hoodie Boy. His legs were tangled up in his dog's leash. “The dog is named Persia. German shepherd, right?”

Kevin nodded.

“And I'm Oak and I really don't want to be here.”

For some reason I was taken aback to learn that Hoodie Boy actually had a real name other than what the girls and I had been calling him for so long.

The girls. I wondered what Ashley and Sierra were doing at this very moment. I was jealous of their freedom to have a summer break.

“No one wants to be here,” said Randy, as though reading my mind.

“I think it's fun!” said Talbot, leaning down to kiss her dog.

So gross.

The long silence made me fidgety. What were we supposed to do now?

“Hello?” said Talbot.

Was she talking to me?

“It's your turn,” said Kevin, gesturing toward me.

Before I could get my name out, Hoodie Boy said, “That's Iris.” I couldn't believe that he knew my name. Then I remembered that Kevin had called it out when I'd first arrived; also, word had probably spread about what I'd done at school. Most likely Oak had already shared my crime with the entire group.

“Yeah, I'm Iris, and I don't have a dog. Which is totally fine by me.”

“Oh yes, you do,” said Randy. “You have my sloppy seconds.”

Everyone laughed but me.

“Let me run and get him,” said Kevin, and he took off toward the community building. He emerged moments later, dog on leash.

“Iris, this is Roman. He is a pit bull.”

My heart raced. The week before, I had watched a show called
World's Most Dangerous Pets
. And pit bulls were number one on the list, which, after what happened to my mom, didn't surprise me in the least. They were killing machines. And when they weren't killing people, surely they were
thinking
about killing them.

The compact brown dog on the other end of Kevin's leash looked like a bicep with legs and had an expression on his face like he was hungry. For flesh. Kevin extended the leash out toward me, but when I reached for it, my hands shook so badly I had to put them back at my side.

“Gimp!” said Randy.
The waters swelled inside
. I was ready to run away and do time in juvenile hall—anything was better than this.

“You could name-call,” Kevin said to Randy, “or I could tell you Roman's story and maybe you'd have a bit more sympathy.”

I wondered what in the world they were talking about—and then, as I scanned the eighty pounds of pure muscle in front of me, I realized that the dog I was so petrified of was missing his back left leg. The tan fur had grown over where the limb had been, and the muscles there moved and pulsed as though a phantom limb were attached.

So that was it.

I showed up late and got the worst possible dog available—the one no one else wanted. The dog that had lost some of its dog-ness. I was so mad I wanted to kick the dog in all three of its working legs, but I was too afraid it would respond by killing me, so I just left my sweaty hands at my side and listened to Kevin.

“Roman hasn't had an easy life. None of these dogs has. I know all their stories well, and as the dogs' official trainers, it's important that you learn their stories, too. If you can understand the dog you're working with, you'll be able to train it much more effectively.”

Roman sat and scratched his ear with his one back leg. So weird looking.

“Roman was born on the streets and was picked up by an illegal dog-fighting ring.”

“What's that?” asked Talbot, adjusting the small silver stud in her nose.

“The dogs fight each other, and people bet on it. My uncle used to do it with roosters,” said Oak. He tugged both cords around his hood, and the fabric tightened against his face. I made it my mission to see his forehead before the summer was over.

“That's so mean,” said Talbot, hugging her dog.

Kevin continued, “Essentially, people pay to see dogs tear each other apart. More often than not, both dogs wind up badly injured. Many die. And then there's the psychological ramifications. Roman here was in a fighting ring for a long time. He was a prizefighter, until he met his match. Another dog attacked him so severely it ruined his back leg, and his owner had no use for him. Animal rescue services found him wandering the streets. He had lost so much blood from his back leg, it had to be amputated. We traced him back to his owner, whose daughter told us Roman's story. Her dad is doing jail time now for animal abuse.”

“Is that what all those scars are from? The fighting?” asked Shelley, still talking in practically a whisper.

I looked more closely at what she was referring to. All along Roman's fur were small lines, scars telling stories of his previous life. His body resembled dolphins I'd seen in the ocean who had been hit by boats or attacked by sharks, their rubbery skin covered in slash marks that would never heal. I did feel sorry for the dog, but at the same time, Kevin had just verified that he really was a trained killing machine. What business did I have training Roman? Was I, an incarcerated teen, so disposable that I could be used as an experiment in this killer-dog training process?

As though Kevin could read my thoughts, he added, “Just to let you know, Roman has been in training for a long time, Iris. There's nothing to be afraid of. We would never give you a dog who was dangerous.”

“If he's all trained, then why is he still
here
?” asked Randy. I couldn't even see Tinkerbelle, who was hiding behind his massive legs.

“Well, he still needs work—it's a slow process to undo all the damage that's been done and have him gain our trust. Also, it's really hard to adopt out a three-legged dog. People want a dog that looks like…” Kevin paused, contemplating his word choice.

“A dog?” said Talbot.

“Exactly, but I think you'll find that Roman can do everything other dogs can do.” Kevin handed the leash to me. “You ready for him?”

No. I wasn't ready to take charge of a recovering killer. I wouldn't ever be ready—but did I have a choice? I reached out my shaky arm to Kevin. As soon as I made contact with the leash, Roman ran over to me and sniffed my feet. I kicked them up and toward his nose to shoo him away. He growled, and my fingers automatically released the leash.

The dog took off across the grass, and Kevin followed him.

“That was hysterical,” said Randy. “You got the dog to run away in two seconds flat!”

“Why'd you kick him?” asked Talbot.

The waters rose quickly.

“She didn't kick him,” said Oak. At least someone had been watching.

“He was coming after my feet.” I could feel myself start to hyperventilate.

Kevin returned with the stupid dog in tow. “I'd like everyone to sit down again.”

The wet grass seeped through my pants. I hoped that when I got up, it wouldn't look like I had gone to the bathroom.

“Like I said, these dogs have a history,” said Kevin. “It's our job to take that experience and figure out the best way to relate to the animal.”

“I didn't kick the dog,” I said. My caffeine buzz was wearing off, as was my patience with that girl with the pink hair. Who did she think she was, pointing a finger at me without even knowing me?

“Yes, you did,” said Talbot.

I was tired of being quiet—tired of being wrongly accused. Everyone thought I was violent anyway. Wasn't that what they were saying about me?

Before I knew it, I'd sprung to my feet, heat emanating from my body. I towered over her. I had all the power. Leaning down toward her, I watched with satisfaction as she cowered.

“I didn't kick the dog,” I practically spat in her face. Adrenaline coursed through my body.

Before I knew it, Kevin was occupying what little space remained between the two of us. “That's enough, Iris. Come sit over here.”

My heart was still thumping as he led me to my new seat between Oak and Randy.

“She didn't mean to make contact with the dog,” Kevin said to Talbot. “What I saw was someone who was perhaps a bit nervous shuffle her feet when an eighty-pound pit bull approached. Now let's end this.”