“You’re going to want to take care of that posthaste-like. Streak’s not the kind of dog to be tied to a tree. Anyhoots, go show your friend what Streak can do. Nice meetin’ you, Luke.”
Luke again puts out his hand. “Nice meeting you too, sir.”
“Come back again any time. The door’s always open.”
I wince.
“Thank you, sir,” says Luke. “I will.”
When I open the side gate, Streak is staring intently at us. Most dogs would be yapping, trying to break their necks against the rope, but not Streak. He doesn’t get excited until he knows what’s going on. If I were a dog and someone tied me to a tree, I’d immediately think of the worst-case scenario. I’d be convinced that no one would ever come back to untie me and I’d be stuck out there until I starved. But Streak, he takes it moment by moment.
Grandpa has tied the rope through the ring on Streak’s collar and, while Streak sits still, I untie it. As soon as I do, he bolts and does a crazy, joyous series of figure eights around the backyard.
Luke whistles. “That is one fast dog.”
Streak darts in to nip my heel and I take a play-swipe at him. “Yeah,” I say, smiling. “He sure is.”
Luke kneels down and says, “Hey, Streak. Come.”
“He’s not much of a dog for petting. He lets me scratch him on the head, but—” Before I finish my sentence, Streak bounds up to Luke, gives him a quick kiss on the face, and submits to being rubbed on the chest.
“I guess he likes you,” I say, a little miffed.
“You’re a good dog, aren’t you, boy?” Luke croons to Streak. “I love Border collies,” he continues. “They’re my favorite dogs, but they need a lot of attention.”
“Tell me about it,” I say. “I could throw the ball for him for hours and he’d still want more.”
“Have you started training him yet?”
“Sure,” I say. “Streak, sit!”
Streak sits and looks up at me expectantly.
“Okay, lie down!”
Streak plunks himself on the grass.
“Okay, roll ’em!”
Streak flings himself over and leaps back up to a standing position.
“Good boy!” I tell him. “Good boy!”
“That’s pretty good,” Luke says. “But I mean have you really started to train him?”
This remark annoys me. What’s this kid want—for Streak to recite the Declaration of Independence? “Well,” I say, “he can shake and he knows how to stay…sometimes.”
Luke picks up a ball in the grass and throws it across the yard. Streak shoots after it and grabs it on the first bounce. “Border collies are really smart,” Luke tells me. “Do you know that some can learn up to fifty different commands?”
I pretend not to be surprised. “Well, yeah.”
“Not only that, but they do a lot better when they feel like they have a job. They’re working dogs. That’s why they don’t like to be petted and fussed over too much. They want to be doing stuff all the time.” Luke grabs the ball from Streak’s mouth and throws it again.
I look at Luke. “How do you know so much about dogs?”
Luke shrugs. “This is Montana. Everybody knows about dogs.”
I get the feeling he’s dodging the question.
“I used to have some dogs,” he says. “One was half Border collie.”
“What happened to them?”
Luke tugs on his right earlobe. “They…um…died and my parents didn’t want me to get any more. At least for now.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Aw…it’s okay.”
I can tell I’ve hit a sore spot. “Well, you can play with Streak anytime.”
Luke’s face lights up like a sparkler. “You mean it?”
I shrug and wonder what I’m getting myself into. “Yeah. Uh, sure.”
“Thanks.”
Luke throws the ball for Streak a dozen more times, both of them obviously loving it. Then Luke says, “Well, I’d better go hit the books.”
“What books? It’s only the first day.”
“I’m not much good at math.”
“Yeah, but tonight’s assignment’s a whiz. Five minutes max.”
“I’m kind of slow,” Luke says, and I regret sounding so confident. “I already got held back in math once and want to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Mom says I’ve got more of a reading and writing brain.”
“Oh. We all have things we’re lousy at,” I say, trying to make him feel better. “For me, it’s English. They never seem to read the stuff I like in school.”
“Really? I love English. I can’t wait to read The Watsons Go to Birmingham again.”
“Again?”
Luke shrugs. “Yeah. I read it a couple years ago. It’s a short book.”
“Can you read it for me too?” I ask.
“Aw…sure,” Luke says, grinning.
I walk him to the gate. “Well, guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Streak comes up and sticks his nose through the fence. Luke scratches it. “Bye, Streak. Don’t wear Guy out.”
Chapter Four
After Luke leaves, I throw the ball for Streak a few more times and then poke around the backyard fence, trying to figure out exactly how my dog made his earlier escape. The fence is patched together with sections Grandpa must have salvaged from different places over the years. Chain link lines one side of the yard. Along the other is some kind of ancient wire fencing like people use to keep rabbits out of a garden. Along the back it’s white picket, and up near the house he’s rigged up a kind of metal tube and wire combination, with a rusting gate that leads in and out of the yard.
I find two possible escape routes. In one place on the side, the chain link hasn’t been anchored and Streak could easily scoot under it. Grandpa has a pile of gravel next to the garage that sits on the alley, so I grab a shovel from the toolshed and throw a few shovelfuls along the loose fence bottom. Streak watches what I do with intense interest.
“That ought to keep you from getting out here,” I tell him as I smooth out the gravel.
Streak has no comment.
“Now, what are we going to do about this other spot?” I ask him.
The other place I’m sure Streak can—and probably did—get out is the gate leading to the front. It’s only about three and a half feet high, and even though Streak stands just a little taller than my knees, this dog has springs in his legs. When I hold up a ball or stick, he can leap so high that he’s looking me straight in the face. It’s a little unnerving having him suspended in air in front of me like some space dog, but I’ve gotten used to it.
Anyway, it’s easy to see that with one small leap my dog is over the gate. It’s not so easy to figure out what to do about it. As I’m studying the problem, my mom pulls up. I open the gate and Streak sprints out to greet her.
“Hi, honey,” she says, closing the driver’s side door to our faded red Honda Accord. The car’s got over 200,000 miles on it and was built about the time George Washington crossed the Potomac. It farts and belches more than Grandpa does, but it still runs, so Mom hangs on to it. “We’re going to drive this car until it rolls over and dies,” she tells me again and again. I keep telling her it already has.
“How was work?” I ask, taking the grocery bag from her.
“Work was work,” she says with a tired smile. “Kind of slow, actually. The summer remodeling season’s about over.”
Back in California, Mom was a behavioral therapist for kids with screwed-up home lives and bad attitudes, and I guess she made pretty good money. But when we moved here, she took a minimum-wage job as an assistant in the interior design store owned by her old high school friend, Sara. I don’t know why Mom didn’t get another therapist job here. Sulfur Breath alone could keep her and two or three other people employed full-time. But she said she needed a change.
In fact, the whole move up here seems to be about her needing a change. I didn’t need one. I was just beginning to get
used to my dad being gone. I had friends. We lived close to the beach and I was learning how to surf. When my mom told me we were coming up here to live with Grandpa, I went ballistic. She tried to convince me that it would be fun, that I would love Montana, but I wasn’t buying it. When that didn’t work, she said we needed to be closer to family since we didn’t have any in California. I told her she was all the family I needed. After a dozen skirmishes over three or four days, she finally threw up her hands and said, “Guy, we’re going. I’m sorry you don’t like it, but that’s how it is.” I thought about running away to try to find my dad, but in the end, I packed up my stuff and climbed into the Accord.
Anyway, Mom says the job at the design store is just until she finds something else, but I don’t know what she’s going to find in Coffee, unless it’s at some fast-dog food dump like Burger Bite. As my dad used to say when we visited here, this place is deader than a damn doornail.
“How was your first day of school?” Mom asks, holding the front door open for me.
“It sucked.” I see her cringe and immediately wish I’d just said it was okay. I try not to take things out on her, but sometimes it’s not easy.
“It wasn’t so bad, really,” I backpedal as I slip past her into the living room.
“You have any trouble?” she asks, hooking a shock of her gray-streaked brown hair behind her ear. “Sara down at the store said there are some rough kids in that school.”
“No,” I lie, Brad Mullen lurking in my brain.
“That’s good. Big Sky seems like it’s as good as your school in California.”
Right.
“It’s okay,” I tell her.
“Where’s Grandpa?”
“Is that you, April?” Grandpa yells from the kitchen.
“It’s me, Dad!” my mom calls back. I follow her into the kitchen with the grocery bag.
“How are you, Sweet Molasses?” Grandpa asks her.
“Oh, Dad,” Mom says, leaning over to give him a hug. “You haven’t called me that in years. The first time was when—”
“When you spilled molasses all over the backseat of our Chrysler,” he interrupts.
“You did?” I ask.
Mom blushes, something she almost never does.
“You bet she did,” Grandpa crows. “We went out to the county fair when your mom was…how old were you, April?”
“Seven,” she says.
“We had a brand-new Chrysler and your grandma and I loved that car. Well, out at the fair, your mom here begged us to buy molasses from one of the stands. We told her she wouldn’t like it, but she insisted. You know how strong-headed your mother can be.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
“Anyhoots, we got back in the car and were driving home and I guess she tasted the molasses. The next thing we know, she’s pouring the stuff all over the backseat.”
“Dad, I wasn’t pouring it on the seat,” my mom protests. “I was trying to put it on some graham crackers that were bouncing around in my lap.”
“Sure!” Grandpa snorts. “And I’ve got all my teeth, too! April, I should have taken you over my knee right then and there, but your mom stopped me. She always did have more patience than I did.”
I try to picture Grandma, but I have only one image of her in my mind. I was visiting up here when I was about four years old. I don’t know why, but I woke up early one morning and came out to find Grandma sitting in the kitchen reading the morning paper. When I came in, she gave me a warm, soft hug and asked, “Would you like some coffee?”
Mom and Dad had never let me drink coffee before, but I’d always thought it smelled really good. Grandma poured me a big cup and we sat at the same table Grandpa is sitting at now. Of course, what my grandma gave me was mostly milk, but it made me feel grown up. We sat there talking and drinking coffee until everyone else got out of bed.
Now I look at my mom and Grandpa and wish that my grandmother was still here. I wonder if she could make everything feel like it did before.
Chapter Five
The next morning I still haven’t figured out what to do about the gate. After taking Streak for a short walk, I leave him in the house and count on Grandpa taking him outside again later.
Arriving at Big Sky, I scan the crowd of students for Luke. I don’t see him right away and am heading toward the front steps when my eyes catch movement behind a ponderosa pine. I recognize Brad Mullen and the Parasites pinning someone against the side the building. It’s Luke. My heart races at the thought of having my face pummeled into squash and I begin to turn away.
But I can’t.
“Crap,” I mutter, starting toward them. As I approach, I see Sulfur Breath spitting words into Luke’s face. Luke handles it like a storm-tested sailor, and I can tell he’s been through this before.
“Good morning!” I say with fake enthusiasm. “How are you all? Discussing the math homework?”
“Back off,” Brad hisses. “You’re up next.”
Going for the naïve approach, I say, “I thought the math was pretty difficult. Especially the second-power polynomial. Did you guys have any trouble?”
That does it. Brad bounces Luke against the wall one more time and turns to me, his eyes blazing like molten lava. I wrestle for control of my bladder.
Brad moves in closer and gives me a shove. “I…told…you…” he says between shoves, “to…mind… your…own…business!”
“Yeah, California boy,” adds Clyde, the tapeworm with the NRA cap.
“Leave him out of it,” Luke says.
“It’s okay,” I tell Luke, wiping flecks of saliva from my face. Then, to Sulfur Breath, I say, “What are you so mad about? We didn’t do anything to you.”
“What would you know about it?” Mullen growls, giving me another shove. “Your friend’s family almost ruined this town, and just looking at you makes my eyeballs hurt. We got enough problems without you and other Californians trying to Cal-i-forn-i-cate Montana.”
I wonder what other Californians he’s talking about. I haven’t met anyone else from California since we moved here. I also wonder what he means about Luke’s family, but I suspect this is a bad time to ask. I’m searching for some way to weasel out of the situation when a familiar voice booms out.
“Holding a bit of civil discourse this morning, boys?”
We all turn to see Principal Goode—with an e— strolling toward us. He’s wearing the same suit as the day before, but he now sports a SpongeBob SquarePants tie. The tie thing must be his trademark or something. How creative.
“So, what did I miss?” he asks.
“Nothing, sir,” Brad says in his sweetest T-rex voice. “Me and California here were just gettin’ to know each other.”
“Yes, I’m sure you were, Brad,” Principal Goode replies as the first bell rings. “Now why don’t you and your friends move along to homeroom.”
“Yes sir,” Brad replies, shooting me an I’ll-get-you-later look.
I turn to leave, but the principal puts his hand on my shoulder. “Not so fast, Mr. Martinez. You want to tell me what that was about?”
“No sir. I mean, nothing…sir.”
Principal Goode stares me down.
“Really,” Luke pipes in. “We were just discussing the math homework that’s due today.”
I can see that the principal isn’t buying it. “Well, boys, if you keep covering up for Mr. Mullen, I may have to put you in detention with him. And Mr. Martinez, I have to say I am not impressed with your start here so far. Your school in California may put up with this sort of shenanigans, but this is not California.”
Like I hadn’t noticed.
Principal Goode stares at me for another long second, then abruptly does an about-face and strides off, leaving us to our misery. I hear Luke let out a big sigh. Then, as if nothing has happened, he asks, “So, how’s it going?”
How’s it going? How well can it be going with Sasquatch wanting to rip out your lungs and the school principal breat
hing down your neck?
“Do you have to ask?” I say.
“Aw…you worried about Brad? Don’t. He’ll forget about us by noon.”
“No way. That chip on his shoulder cuts all the way down to his spine. What’s he got against Californians anyway?”
“A lot of people around here blame everything bad that happens on people from California. They're just jealous or something.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Yeah, but some people just like blaming someone else for their problems.” Luke speaks as if he knows this from personal experience, but before I can ask him about it, the second bell rings. Hoisting our packs, we walk toward our homeroom, Mrs. Minneman’s first-period English class.
Luke asks, “Did you figure out how he got loose yesterday?”
“Huh?”
“Streak.”
“Oh. Yeah, I think so,” I say, and his question gives me an idea. “Luke, how good are you with fences?”
“You mean building them?”
“More like fixing them.”
Luke shrugs. “I’ve mended a few. Why?”
“Can you come over to my grandpa’s house after school?”
“Yeah, sure. Do I need to bring anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
That’s good enough for Luke. I’m learning that he’s not exactly the curious type. We reach homeroom and Luke asks, “So, did you read The Watsons Go to Birmingham yet?”
“Nuh-uh,” I say as we make our way to our desks.
“I finished it last night,” Luke says.
I drop my pack next to my desk and stare at him. “You finished it? The whole thing?”
“It was only a couple hundred pages.”
Which would make it about a hundred and fifty pages longer than anything I’ve ever read in my whole life. “Geez, you really do like reading, don’t you?”
Luke shrugs again. “I guess so. It’s a lot more interesting than television. I can lend you some books if you want. I’ve got hundreds of them.”
“Uh, no thanks,” I tell him, sliding into my chair. “My mom’s got a book collection bigger than the Library of Congress. Hey, you don’t think we’re going to talk about The Watsons Go to Birmingham today, do you?”
Dog Sense Page 3
