Dog Sense

by Sneed B. Collard III

  Grandpa pops another grape into his mouth. “Now don’t get me wrong, son. I think you’ve got plenty of heart, but let’s face it. You fight Brad Mullen and you’ll be a punching bag for him. But hey,” he adds, “if that’s the way you want to play it.”

  Now I’m really annoyed. “What would you do?”

  Grandpa chews for a while, then swallows. “Well, I was under the impression you had a pretty good thinking cap under that crazy hair of yours. At least as good as Brad’s and probably a good sight better.”

  “I get by,” I tell him.

  “So why are you letting Brad Mullen pick the field of battle?”

  I look at my grandfather and then down at Streak. Grandpa, I realize, is a lot smarter than I ever gave him credit for.

  “You have any ideas?” I ask.

  “Naw. This is your show and I’m confident you can handle it. Just remember one thing: The best victory is one where the other guy wins, too.”

  Chapter Seven

  The following day in English, Mrs. Minneman hands out our next assignment, a book called Animal Farm. “Great,” I whisper to Luke. “A book about farming.”

  Luke stifles a laugh. “It’s not about farming. Haven’t you ever heard of George Orwell?”

  The name sounds familiar. “Didn’t he used to coach the Washington Redskins?” I ask.

  This time Luke’s laugh erupts before he can stuff it. Several kids turn around to look at us—including Catherine. My heart freezes, then fires off like an M-80. Catherine smiles at me through her red-rimmed glasses, but before I can figure out what kind of smile it is, she turns around and Mrs. Minneman starts her morning lecture.

  “Now that you’ve gotten warmed up with The Watsons Go to Birmingham,” she tells us, “it’s time to sink your teeth into something even pithier.”

  I’m not sure what “pithier” means, but it can’t be good.

  “The Watsons Go to Birmingham,” Mrs. Minneman explains, “deals with the topic of racism—the oppression of one group of people by another, specifically black people by whites. Animal Farm also deals with oppression, but examines it in a more general context as part of human nature.”

  “Sounds like big fun,” I mutter.

  “For tonight’s homework, I want you to read the first two chapters. We’ll talk about them tomorrow.”

  I sigh. But then I look again at Catherine, who’s busy counting Mrs. Minneman’s syllables on her fingertips. I think, Maybe I’d have something to say to Catherine if I read the assignment for a change.

  That sounds so lame—doing your homework so some girl might take a look at you—but I’m tired of waiting around for things to happen to me. In California, I did things. I skateboarded, learned to surf, played video games with my friends. But here, my only friend is Luke and he’s not into skateboarding or any of the stuff I used to do. I guess I could try to make other friends, but so far all most kids seem to talk about around here is cars and hunting and fishing—stuff I couldn’t care less about. Besides, I think word’s gotten out that I’m on Brad’s hit list. Whenever I walk by a group of guys, they stop talking or tense up like I’ve got swine flu or something. Maybe they think that if they’re friends with me, Brad will sight in on them, too.

  I don’t know what the answer is. I just know I’m tired of feeling like I’m in a foreign country where everyone knows the rules but me.

  At least Sasquatch isn’t waiting for me after school. Luke and I both breathe sighs of relief as we head down the steps of Big Sky and see nothing but smooth sailing back to my house. As we start walking, I think about what Grandpa told me about Luke’s family. I feel like asking Luke more about it, but he starts chattering away happily about something that happened in his P.E. class this afternoon, and I don’t want to bring him down by prying into his past. And again, his skeletons are none of my business unless he decides to tell me about them. So as Luke launches into a new story about a girl and her horse, I turn my mind toward getting Brad off my case.

  Grandpa’s right, I think. Outsmarting Brad is definitely the way to go. It’s the only way to go if I want to stay out of the hospital.

  I consider different ideas to get him off my back. They range from digging a bully trap for him outside his front door to trying to get him to like me by acting as mean as he is. Maybe I could buy him an ice cream or pack of chewing tobacco, I think, but that sounds even stupider than my other ideas.

  “Hey, there’s Streak!” Luke says as we approach my house.

  “Huh?” I say, following Luke’s finger. Behind the new-and-improved gate, Streak sits patiently watching our approach.

  “How’s the dog?” Luke asks in his best doggy voice. As Luke opens the gate, Streak leaps into the air and gives him a big lick. Then Streak gives my cheek a slurp.

  “Hey, good boy!” I say, kneeling down so Streak can wriggle in and out of my arms. I love this dog. He cheers me up just by being himself.

  “Here ya go,” Luke says, picking up the tennis ball, which by now looks and smells like it’s been floating in a septic tank. Luke chucks it toward the back of the yard and Streak tears after it.

  “He’s the fastest dog I ever saw,” Luke says.

  “Yeah, he’s pretty fast.” I try to sound modest.

  “Aw…that reminds me,” Luke says. “Did you hear about the Fall Fair?”

  “I heard the announcement at school.” Before Mrs. Minneman’s class this morning, Principal Goode came on the intercom and announced that the Fall Fair would be held the weekend after next. I’d never heard of a Fall Fair, but quickly learned it was some kind of fundraiser to help pay for the rest of the year’s activities.

  “Aw…I was thinking Streak would be perfect for it.”

  “Perfect for what?” I ask.

  “The Frisbee contest.”

  Luke takes the ball from Streak and tosses it again. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but the word “Frisbee” gets my attention. Back in California my friends and I used to play Ultimate Frisbee all the time.

  “You know,” Luke tells me again. “The Frisbee contest. Every year at the Fall Fair, there’s a dog Frisbee-catching contest. You bring your dog and see how many times he can catch the Frisbee in a minute. They score you by how far you throw the Frisbee and whether your dog leaps into the air to catch it. Streak would be perfect for that.”

  “There’s only one problem,” I tell Luke. “Streak can’t catch a Frisbee.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  I go into the house, say a quick hi to Grandpa—just long enough to pour him a glass of V8—and rummage through the boxes in the back of my closet. After a few minutes, I unearth a beat-up Frisbee I brought from California.

  “Aw…perfect,” Luke says when I return to the backyard. “Let’s see what ole Streak can do.”

  Streak drops his ball and eyes the Frisbee curiously as Luke pulls his arm back. Luke gives a couple of fake throws to let Streak know that it’s a game. Then he flings the faded blue disc across the backyard. It’s not a good throw and dives quickly, but Streak bounds after it. He doesn’t try to catch it, instead waiting until it hits the ground before snatching it up. He does carry it back to us, though—a good sign.

  “Here, let me try,” I say. I make a short side-armed throw with the disc, causing it to float longer than Luke’s throw. Streak is waiting for it when it comes down and it bonks him on the head. Luke and I laugh, but Streak enthusiastically grabs the disc and rushes back to us.

  Luke and I begin trading off throwing the Frisbee.

  On the third throw, Streak snaps at the Frisbee as it comes down.

  On the fourth and fifth throws, he looks like he’s trying to catch it.

  On the sixth throw, he actually seizes it in his mouth and Luke and I whoop for joy.

  By the tenth throw, Streak is leaping into the air to intercept the Frisbee when it’s still three or four feet off the ground.

  I try to give Streak a dogg
ie treat as a reward, but he shakes me off. He just wants another chance at that Frisbee.

  “He’s a natural,” Luke says as I toss the disc again.

  “He really is,” I agree, still not quite believing it. “I don’t know why I never tried this before. Do you think he’ll be good enough to compete in the Fall Fair?”

  Luke laughs. “He’s already good enough for the fair. He might even win.”

  “How many people usually compete?”

  “Maybe ten, fifteen. But only a couple of the dogs will give Streak a run for it.”

  “Who won last year?” I take the Frisbee from Streak and stop to look at Luke, who has become strangely silent.

  “Well?” I ask him.

  “Brad Mullen and his dog Shep.”

  After Luke leaves, I chat with Grandpa for a few minutes and then head to my room. Streak follows me and lies down as I pick out a CD and put it in the changer. My stereo’s old, but it still works fine. Over the last few years I’ve managed to scrape together a pretty good CD collection. Mom keeps trying to push folk and classical music on me, but most of my stuff is harder rock—Led Zeppelin, Guns N’ Roses, the Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, and Neil Young and Crazy Horse.A lot of my CDs were my dad’s, but I’ve also got some newer bands like Social Distortion and Green Day and Jim’s Big Ego.

  I hit the Play button, put on my headphones, and flop down on my bed. A moment later, the first beats of Pink Floyd’s The Wall fill my brain. The opening notes lift my body off the mattress and I close my eyes and float with the music.

  I can’t always listen to my dad’s CDs. Sometimes they make me miss him too much or get angry at him for leaving. Other times, though, they put me into a comfortable place to think about stuff and what’s going on. This is one of those times. I wonder again what Catherine’s smile meant earlier in English class and what she’s doing right now. I think about my reading assignment for the night—and kick it back out of my head. Then I glance down at Streak and marvel at how fast he learned to catch the Frisbee. I haven’t made up my mind about entering him in the Fall Fair. I love the idea of kicking Brad’s butt in the contest, but I don’t have to think much further to realize I’d be the one to get the final butt-kickin’ if Streak and I did manage to pull it off.

  Eventually I tune out thoughts about the contest and sink deeper into the music. I’m almost completely zoned when I hear a loud knock on my bedroom door. I open my eyes and tug the headphones off.

  “Yeah?” I say.

  My mom opens the door.

  “Oh, hi,” I say, still pulling my brain out of “The Wall.”

  “Hi,” she says. “The power company just called to report an unusual drain on their electricity supply. I thought it might be from your stereo.”

  “Hey, I’m using my headphones. How did you know I was listening to music?”

  “It was too quiet. I figured you were in here assaulting your tympanic nerves.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t have it up too high.”

  Mom smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. I don’t want you needing a hearing aid like Grandpa.”

  “How was work?” I ask.

  Mom sits down on the edge of my bed and lets out a sigh. She looks beat. “Helping people pick out wallpaper isn’t quite the career move I always dreamed it would be.”

  I snort and ask, “Does that mean we can move back to California?”

  “No,” my mom says, trying to hide her annoyance. “This is our home—for now, at least. Besides, I’ll figure out something better. Hey, how’s school going?”

  I shrug. “It’s okay.”

  “You’re not having any problems with the kids or anything?”

  “Just the usual,” I lie. “It’s no big deal.”

  Once or twice I’ve debated whether to tell her about Brad Mullen, but I figure she’s got enough to worry about. Also, she’s pretty clueless about this kind of stuff. Maybe because of her training as a behavioral therapist, she always believes that just below the surface of any creep is some angel waiting to come out. She doesn’t get it that some people act creepy because they are creepy.

  “How are your classes?” Mom asks.

  “Mostly pretty good,” I say.

  “English?”

  “Yeah, well…”

  I expect her to chastise me or give me a pep talk, but instead, she says, “You know, when I was your age, I hated English, too.”

  My eyes widen. “You did?” The way books are always welded to her hand, it’s the last thing I expect her to say.

  She nods and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear—a lot like Catherine does, I realize.

  “Yep. I remember I had this teacher, Mrs. Bartoletti. She was a great teacher, but I didn’t know it at the time. She’d start reading poetry and her eyes would go all misty. She seemed to know every poem by heart and would just let the book fall by her side as the poems poured out of her. After school, my friends and I would make fun of her, inventing our own silly rhymes and pretending to cry.”

  “So what changed your mind about books?” I ask.

  She ponders this for a moment.

  “Believe it or not, I think it was your father,” she finally says, turning her blue eyes toward me.

  “But you always said he had a math brain.”

  “He did—does,” she says, shifting her gaze back out the window. “But when I first met him in college, he always carried a book around with him. Books about philosophy and politics and history. He seemed to want to absorb everything all at once. I wasn’t really interested in the books myself. I think I started reading to impress him, but eventually I got hooked.”

  Mom gets really far away for a moment, then snaps her eyes back toward me and puts her hand on my leg. “Anyway, Guy, I know you don’t like English, but I hope you put some effort into it. I want you to have more options than your grandparents did. Or than other kids around here will have without a good education.”

  After Mom leaves to fix dinner, I think about what she said. “What the hell,” I mutter. I turn off my stereo and dig out Animal Farm from my backpack. Lying back down on my bed, I open the book. I skip the introduction—just the word “Introduction” makes me feel like falling into a coma—and plunge into chapter one.

  It’s slow going. I don’t know much about plot, but I know I like action and this book begins about as fast as a poisoned slug. After a couple of pages, though, I realize that the book definitely isn’t about farming, and that’s a relief. It’s about these animals that get ticked off at people and take over the farm where they live. In between taking breaks to throw the Frisbee for Streak and eating dinner and catching The Simpsons on television, I manage to finish chapters one and two. I don’t like doing it, but I do it. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever finished an English assignment on time, and I’m so proud of myself that I go ahead and read chapter three, too.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day, I take my seat in English and Principal Goode blesses our day over the PA system. Mrs. Minneman gets up from her desk and asks, “So, how does everyone like Animal Farm so far?”

  Nobody says anything for a moment. Then a kid named Dylan raises his hand and says, “It’s kind of boring.”

  Right on, Dylan, I think.

  Then a girl raises her hand and says, “It’s not that it’s boring, exactly. It’s, like, weird.”

  Mrs. Minneman laughs. “Okay. I can see how those are valid criticisms. But what is it about? You’ve got these farm animals and they force the people off the farm and start running it for themselves. What is going on?”

  After a moment, Catherine raises her hand. I’m always glad when she does this because it gives me a good excuse to watch her without seeming too obvious.

  “The book isn’t about animals,” she says. “It’s about people.”

  “Go on,” says Mrs. Minneman.

  “Well, I think all the different animals represent different kinds of people in society. Some are better at some thing
s than others are and some seem smarter.”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I also raise my hand and say, “Yeah, the pigs all know how to read and write. But Boxer can only learn the first four letters of the alphabet.”

  Silence drops over the classroom. Luke and the other kids just stare at me and I can feel my face turn into a tomato. I don’t know what I said wrong, but I’m sure I should have kept my mouth shut.

  Finally Mrs. Minneman speaks. “You’re absolutely right, Guy. But I think you’ve been reading ahead.”

  I suddenly realize that the part I just talked about was from chapter three, and we were only supposed to read through chapter two. “Oh, right,” I mutter. “Sorry.”

  Instead of being upset, Mrs. Minneman gets this goofy look on her face like she’s pleased. We go on to talk about other aspects of the book and what they might mean. I don’t raise my hand again, but I can pretty much follow everything that’s being said. By the end of class, I feel something I’ve never felt in English before—average.

  It feels kind of good.

  Later that day during Spanish, I receive a note to come to the counselor’s office. There are only twenty minutes left in the period, so I gather up my books and head down there, wondering what’s going on. I’m almost positive it’s about my D on the English paper, but at the same time it seems a bit early in the semester to be dragging me out of class for a pep talk.

  The counselor’s office is tucked in with the administrative offices. I hand the note to the school secretary, Mrs. Bellweather. She glances at it and says, “Go on in.”

  As I enter, I see the counselor, Mr. Doolebaum, reading some papers at his desk. I’ve seen him around before. He’s hard to miss. He towers over everyone else, and he strides through the halls with a permanent smile stretching his lips. Everyone calls him Mr. D. He’s always wearing these funky shirts with a turquoise and silver bolo tie. Even more shocking, he has a long black ponytail—the only one I’ve seen on a man since moving to Montana.