The Mountaintop School for Dogs and Other Second Chances (2 page)

Seven hours later, I woke sharply, cleanly, and instantly alert, to the sound of dogs on the mountain. They were racing toward the inn with a racket that split the air, the morning, the world, louder than thunder because it sounded so alive.

C
OMPLETE HETEROCHROMIA
, the condition of different irises, is common in sled dogs: one blue and one amber. Some people find it fascinating, not disturbing. But the breed book didn't say the colors would be icily cold when you saw them for real. It didn't say the eyes would be part of the faces of teethy, screaming animals as strong and wild as wolves.

Out back of the inn, every bark, yelp, and howl left echoes that bit the air, as if the echoes had teeth of their own. No, not teeth. They were fangs. Even in the safety of looking down from the window at those dogs, in harnesses that could snap any moment and release them, I was having some trouble containing myself.

I could not go near those dogs. I could not ride up on that sled they were attached to. It looked lighter than a basket.

By now I'd seen the mountain in daylight. It wasn't steep as much as it was vertical. Wind was blowing high up, and in the clouds of swirling snow, I couldn't make out what the height was. It seemed to keep going and going. I had never been anywhere before so full of outdoors, with no buildings, no cars, no anything human at all. Maybe that was helping me feel even more terrified. But I wished that somewhere in my past I'd been traumatized by dogs, so I could blame my escape on a memory, like I was having a flashback.

I washed up quickly in the small bathroom. I saw that I had fooled myself the night before when I thought I was happy. I was supposed to have learned to stop fooling myself.

Loading my pack, I wondered about the bus schedule back to the village, back to the train. I decided to make my way to the main road and flag down a bus while walking briskly, so I didn't die of hypothermia. That was my only plan.

Soon I was quietly descending the stairs, seeing no one. My stay at the inn was part of my Sanctuary tuition, prepaid, so I didn't need to check out, and I didn't want to tangle with that clerk. I stepped outside into a dazzle of whiteness and sun. No dogs had broken free to come lunging around to the front. The barking had stopped.

But a different noise was on the way. I had just set my feet on the ground when a vehicle appeared. It was a Jeep, a Cherokee, thrashing toward the inn through the snow, honking, blowing out exhaust from a broken muffler loud enough to be gunshot.

The thing was souped up on studded tires and fitted with a bar on the grille in the shape of a frown, plus extra, raised headlights, like a second pair of eyes on a clunky, four-footed cyborg. It came to a stop sideways, right by me. On the door was the Sanctuary's name and logo, and I realized, seeing it closely, in actual life, that the picture of the dog, at its airy, sky-walking tilt, was like a drawing on a star chart. It was Canis Major. What I'd thought were spots on its body were
stars.

At the wheel was a figure wearing sunglasses and a jacket of forest green, like a park ranger's.

The Jeep was in idle, engine throbbing, muffler rumbling in many little explosions. The window on the driver's side was rolled down. There was no way to tell if the driver was a man or a woman, not even when I was greeted by name.

I shouted, “Will you take me to the train?”

“I know you're here to train! We thought you were coming last night!”

“I'm leaving! Leaving!”

“What?”

I started for the passenger's side, but the driver stopped me with a look.

“I came down for the sled puppies! They're too young to go back on their own!”

Puppies? Those animals were
puppies?

At last the engine was turned off. The driver was a chubby, pink-cheeked boy who looked about twelve. Yet he worked for the Sanctuary. Obviously he could drive. Taking off his sunglasses, he revealed pale, friendly eyes.

“Welcome to the mountain,” he said.

“But I'm not on it.”

“Welcome anyway. It's great you're in time for breakfast. You look hungry.”

I asked him, “How old are you?”

That was when the desk clerk from last night stuck her head out the inn door and yelled two sentences before slamming it shut. She was addressing the driver.

“They're starting her right off! Tell her to get in here and get ready!”

“Uh-oh,” said the driver. “I guess they changed the plan. Sorry about this. Mrs. Auberchon will show you where to go. She's the manager.”

“Oh, the manager. I guess I'd better meet her.”

“You just did. That was her. Listen, you have to hide, but don't be nervous. Just follow instructions and you'll be perfect.”

It was cold. My teeth were starting to rattle. I was getting the feeling I should do as I was told.

“The dog who'll try to find you might qualify for SAR,” the driver said. “So we need to practice with a stranger. You have to hide like you're in a building that's on fire, or was bombed, or you were in a plane wreck. You have to pretend you're unconscious.”

He gave me a grin, a big one. “By the way,” he said, “I'm old enough to figure out you saw those sledders, or at least you heard them, and you didn't get it they're still just pretty much babies. But don't worry. I'm not going to tell on you.”

In my application to the Sanctuary, I had sort of suggested I was someone who had actual experience with actual dogs. But still. I'm not going to tell on you? He sounded
four.

“Get a new muffler!” I cried.

On my way back inside, I thought again of breed names, reciting them as if I'd put them in my head like a drug that's good for you: something to calm you down in moments of trouble.

Airedale, basenji, corgi. Doberman. Entlebucher mountain. Finnish spitz. Glen of Imaal. Havanese. Ibizan. Japanese Chin. Komondor. Lhasa apso. Malamute.

Then I thought of dogs I knew of who are not in the actual world. Lassie, I thought. Sandy in
Annie.
Kep, Pickles, Duchess, and John Joiner of Beatrix Potter. The nanny in
Peter Pan.
Toto. Buck in
The
Call of the Wild.
Flush, the dog of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Virginia Woolf. Crab, the only dog in Shakespeare. Cafall, the dog of King Arthur. Argos, the dog of Odysseus.

And there came back to me the odd contentment I felt when I first looked at the Sanctuary website. I hadn't cared that it looked old and gave few details. I'd read the simple, short description of the training program with the sense that it was saying to me, personally, somehow,
you want to be here.
It hadn't occurred to me to think it strange that there weren't any photos of people, or information about who my teachers would be, or how the program actually worked. I had stared a long time at the photos of the lodge, the evergreens encircling it in a half-moon, the ceiling of mountaintop sky—and then of course the dogs, lots of them, happy, healthy, and friendly, and completely ready to play their parts as perfect students to new trainees. I only now thought to wonder where Sanctuary dogs came from.

I reentered the inn. In my head was the picture of myself I'd imagined, starting with the videos I watched for a whole afternoon of the Westminster Dog Show, the handlers skipping solemnly around the ring holding leashes, the animals gorgeous, flowing in prances, in trots, radiant with well-being, like they were saying, look at me, look at me, look at
me.

I'd turned on the TV a few times to see
Animal Planet,
but I never timed it when a dog show was on; anyway, there were too many commercials. So I went to YouTube. I watched a few videos from animal shelters and rescue societies, but I didn't give them much attention. They didn't apply to the type of dogs I planned to train.

In a daydreamy way, I had pictured my dogs peering out windows, catching sight of me as I drew near—
the one human in all the world who understands me,
their eyes would be saying, while their owners were somewhere behind them, at the end of their ropes because their dog was mouthy, was obsessive-compulsive, was peeing on carpets, getting into the garbage, shredding upholstery, putting holes in the walls, destroying running shoes, wallets, vacuum cleaner attachments, pot roasts, heirloom Christmas ornaments, everything. And here I would come to save them, competent, confident, maybe carrying some type of satchel like Mary Poppins. Should I call my dogs clients? Or is the client the one who'd be paying my bill?

What I liked best were the videos of military people coming home to their dogs from a war, always taking the dog by surprise, because you can't sit down with an animal and describe an event that hasn't happened yet, which was something I'd never thought about before. I didn't know anyone military, but I wished I did, and that the person had a dog. I would have called to talk about homecomings.

Sometimes when dogs greeted a returning soldier, they'd go over the edge. They would have to take a few moments to run crazily in circles around the human, or around a room or a yard. I'd have to take a break from watching, so my brain had a chance to absorb what I was seeing: that there is such a thing as joy being bigger than the container that holds it.

Maybe I shouldn't think of this as a career. Maybe I should say it's a
calling.

Back in the lobby, I had to deal with Mrs. Auberchon. She said nothing but motioned for me to leave my shoulder bag and pack by the desk. She pointed the way to a short hallway, where a closet door was ajar. It was a walk-in: shelves full of towels, linens, toilet paper, paper towels. There was plenty of room for me to settle down on the floor in a crouch, sitting back on my heels, my head low. In the dimness, my hearing became acute. So many moments ticked by, I lost count, and I began to feel nothing would happen. Then the waiting suddenly ended. Was that really a dog, that sniffling, that panting, that snorting?

Search-and-rescue dogs
are generally drawn from breeds of a strong work ethic, a high level of trainability, and a high potential for satisfaction and pride at accomplishing a complex, often dangerous task in which the reward is a job well done. German shepherds and Golden retrievers are particular stars of this profession.

I imagined Rin Tin Tin. I imagined the love-eyed silky goldens in the catalogs from L. L. Bean I'd looked at for new outfits. “Hello and well done!” That's what I thought I'd be saying very soon, while stroking a short-hair, or losing my hands in long, soft fur.

Then I met Shadow.

There were yowly little yips, a paw, a drooly muzzle. It was strange, like meeting an alien. A close, damp, chilly nose was sniffing me, and the paw was pushed into my back. I felt the press of an animal's weight, not too much, not slight.

And then . . . urine. Maybe he was too young and inexperienced to know it's not a good idea to pee on the person you just found? Maybe he was over-excited? Whatever the reason, it happened that the first thing I did with a Sanctuary dog was to let out a yelp of my own.

“Fuck off me!”

The second thing was a threat and also a promise.

“Pee on me again and you will
die.
”

He didn't look like he was sorry before he ran away: Shadow, a breed of his own, a puzzle put together with pieces of many different ones that somehow fit together. He was beagle-ish, like a Snoopy mutation, but also basset. There were coonhound or tree hound legs too long for his body, and soft, small envelope flaps for ears. He had the droopy eyes of a bloodhound, a long, dark, skinny tail, and narrow feet like a goat's. His thin body was speckled and spotted: a little white, a little tan, a little black, lots of brown.

Was I supposed to look on the bright side and be glad he only peed on my hand? He'd probably hoped for more. He was probably too stupid to aim.

Mrs. Auberchon must have let him out, but she was nowhere to be seen. The inn was silent. There was only the sound of the Jeep in the distance, driving up, away, sending out its little explosions.

I ran upstairs to wash and found a sheet of paper on the top step. It had someone's careful writing on it, blue, in old-fashioned penmanship. The sheet was standard printer paper, but the writing was so neat it looked like it was done on lined notebook paper.

 

Shadow. Male. Hound Mix. Age between five and six. Vaccines administered. Heartworm treated. Coat near normal following extensive care. Forty-two pounds, needs to gain. Neutered after arrival, following treatment for severely infected ring of neck skin due to choke collar. Yard dog, rural area, chained to stake, without shelter. Very likely had zero indoor experience. Exhibits qualities of intelligence, concentration, resilience. May be trained for search-and-rescue. Skittish at present, slow to trust. Not yet fully housebroken. Was taken secretly from former situation and transported directly here. Does not vocalize through barking. Almost completely mute.

 

When I finished reading it, I realized the paper in my hand was shaking. I opened the top drawer of my bunk—mine again, for here I still was—and dropped it in. The drawer smelled like a pinecone. I'd brought up my bag and pack, lugging them with one hand, the one that wasn't wet and stinking. I went into the pack to get out my own soap. The inn soap was Irish Spring, which I refused to use. I didn't want to smell like a guy. I'd almost forgotten to bring my own all that lifetime ago of two days, when I was packing for the Sanctuary. That was something I could say I did right.

I didn't look into the mirror above the bathroom sink as I washed. I didn't want to know what my face was like, now that I knew what I knew about that dog.

Then breaking through to me, floating up from downstairs, was the smell of something that made me forget about everything else, including the fact that, a few months earlier, I became a vegetarian, which I'd meant to stick with for the rest of my life.