Mountain Dog

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by Margarita Engle

Tiny, splintered-wood school.

  So how come it seems like a ton

  of huge, scary faces?

  The old-fashioned building

  is plopped in a rocky patch

  of flowers that smell like wildness.

  Right away, a loud girl shouts

  that she saw me at Cowboy Church.

  Good dog, she yells, and even though

  I know she must mean Gabe,

  I feel strangely praised.

  Mom knew what she was doing

  when she trained me to obey.

  So I tell myself to concentrate

  on this new-school reality.

  My future. My torment.

  Which boy will be the first

  to trip me? Which girls

  can’t wait to laugh?

  I avoid eye contact.

  If there are bullies here,

  they’ll take a bold gaze

  as a challenge.

  I’ve been through it so many times

  that I have a reputation for battles,

  even though fighting

  is the last thing

  I’ve ever

  wanted

  to do.

  The teacher is old and friendly.

  The students are young and curious.

  I don’t even try to learn names.

  Why bother? As soon as Mom gets out

  of prison, I’ll have to move back

  to my pit-bull life, the place

  where I’ve always felt

  muzzled

  and caged.

  By the end of that first long day,

  all the kids know that I live

  with my uncle, who has a search-

  and-rescue dog. The loud girl

  doesn’t keep secrets.

  She claims she’s a reporter

  for the school paper.

  She wants me to join her staff,

  get a press pass, help her write

  stories about four-footed

  trail angels.

  I don’t know what she means.

  Are trail angels like snow angels?

  Do people lie down and wave

  their arms and legs

  in mud or dust?

  That night, when Tío asks me

  about my first day of school, I don’t

  say much, so he takes me outdoors

  in the darkness

  to stargaze.

  Without any traffic or streetlights,

  the forest seems ancient.

  I feel like a time traveler

  in a distant land

  where I don’t know

  the language

  of star shapes.

  Constellations.

  Pictures in the sky.

  Myths. Stories. Directions.

  A way to find north or south

  by following a path

  made of light years.

  Soon, the night-gazing spell is broken.

  In bed, beside Gabe, ferocious dreams

  grab me and shake me, biting, piercing,

  spilling blood. By morning,

  I feel wounded

  instead of restful.

  Gabe nuzzles my face, but I can’t tell

  if he’s really trying to comfort me,

  or does he just wish he could somehow

  understand humans?

  The next school day is oddly awkward

  and friendly at the same time.

  The loud girl is nosy, asking questions,

  demanding answers: Who am I, where

  do I come from? Am I Latino? Am I legal?

  Do I like to write?

  Essays? Stories? Poems?

  I fall quiet. I plan to keep the answers

  to myself. I haven’t had to fight

  at this school. My only battle

  is against

  my own past.

  So far, there are no gangster bullies

  with knives or guns. Just the nosy girl’s

  bossy voice. Her name is Gracie,

  and she knows everyone.

  She talks to other kids about me,

  and she chatters to me about them.

  Pretty soon, I’ll probably end up

  with all their names stuck in my mind,

  even though I don’t want to remember

  anything that I’ll soon have to try

  to forget.

  The dizzy mountain bus ride

  back to Tío’s cabin feels endless.

  Three more days until the weekend.

  All I have to do is avoid Gracie

  and nosiness

  and friendliness

  and math.

  Nightmares come and go.

  Should I tell Tío? Would he know

  how to stop them? Would he care?

  What if he just lets me stay here

  because he has to? Is there a law

  that says great-uncles have to help

  their relatives’ kids?

  By the time Saturday arrives,

  sun and warmth have melted

  most of the snow. Tío invites me

  to climb into the truck

  and go exploring with Gabe.

  We glide up to high slopes,

  to a snow-patched campground

  where ragged hikers lounge,

  leaning on grubby backpacks.

  There’s a trading post, with corrals

  for pack animals—horses, mules,

  and even a few long-necked llamas,

  strange, woolly creatures

  that make the day seem

  like a daydreamed

  adventure.

  Suddenly, my other life—

  my pit-bull life—starts to feel

  unreal.

  Catching Gabe’s excitement,

  I push uneasy thoughts of the past

  as far away as I can. This is real.

  The llamas, the wildness, the peaks.

  All I want is a chance to pay attention.

  Giant burgers sizzling on a campfire.

  Hikers chatting in foreign languages.

  The camp is a rest stop for trekkers

  from all over the world: Iceland,

  Australia, France, Japan.

  Tío explains that people who walk

  all the way from Mexico to Canada

  on the Pacific Crest Trail

  are called thru-hikers. The trail

  is 2,650 miles long and passes through

  unimaginably rugged

  wilderness.

  In some parts, there’s no water.

  In others, no warmth.

  Hikers talk to me in broken English

  about all the mountains they’ve seen,

  the Alps, the Andes, the Himalayas.

  I listen in wonder, trying to imagine

  the size of the world.

  No wonder I feel

  so small.

  Wild words are added

  to my vocabulary when Tío gives me

  my first wilderness tour.

  Trail angels—the phrase Gracie used—

  turn out to be dedicated professionals

  like Tío, who works for free on weekends

  and evenings, as a volunteer,

  along with other people

  whose jobs have nothing to do

  with the wilderness. They just

  volunteer because they love to help

  by stocking food and water in caches—

  bear-proof cans placed on remote paths,

  just in case a weary thru-hiker

  runs low on supplies, and suffers

  from hunger or thirst.

  Help from a stranger is called trail magic.

  Food. Water. Rescue.

  There are trail names, too, brave names

  chosen by hikers. Explorer, Sky Walker,

  Wolf Man. All the thru-hikers I meet

  have trail names that sound

  adventurous.

  My wilderness tourr />
  is both scary and exciting.

  Sheer cliffs, tumbled boulders,

  the singing

  sighing

  wind.

  Gazing around, I imagine

  how lonely it would feel

  to stray from the trail

  and get lost way out here,

  just waiting for Tío

  and a search dog

  like Gabe.…

  No wonder the hikers

  call my uncle’s friendly dog

  a four-footed trail angel.

  That night, next to Gabe,

  I listen to his slow breath,

  with its peaceful rhythm

  like soothing music.

  No nightmares.

  Just sleep.

  In the morning, when Gabe stares

  into my eyes, I feel like I can see

  his dog thoughts, his memories.…

  Before he was adopted by Tío,

  he was a stray, lost and lonely,

  but now he finds lost people,

  saving their lives.

  Some things in life actually do

  make sense.

  So why can’t I understand Mom?

  The pit-bull fights were like

  horror movies.

  I didn’t know how to make

  the pain stop.

  No wonder I have mean dreams.

  Scary men. Scary dogs. I was the one

  who had to patch wounds

  and touch scars.

  I was also in charge of the money,

  the numbers, the bets.

  That’s why I still think of math

  as a battle.

  Now, when Gabe grins

  and wags his tail, I feel like he’s

  inviting me to leave the past far behind

  and play dog games—tag, tug-of-war,

  victory dance!

  Then it’s time for Cowboy Church,

  a swirl of people, horses, dogs,

  all howling through songs

  and prayers.

  Loud Gracie trots up to me

  on a spotted mare. She smiles

  and waves from the height

  of her perch on the horse.

  By now I know that her parents

  are away for a year, studying

  elephants in India. So she lives

  with her grandma, a retired

  wildlife biologist she calls B.B.

  because B.B. studies black bears

  and is beautifully brave.

  In a shy, quiet way

  that catches me by surprise,

  Gracie asks if I’ve checked out

  the school’s online newspaper.

  I haven’t, and I don’t plan to.

  I don’t want to hear Gracie’s

  gossip.

  But later, back at the cabin,

  curiosity grips me.

  I borrow Tío’s laptop.

  There it is: My name

  in a story about city kids

  who have to adjust to small

  mountain schools.

  Gracie’s casually written words

  make it sound so easy, but that’s

  because she doesn’t know

  that in a couple

  of hours

  I’ll be heading

  downhill

  down

  down

  down

  to the flatlands

  to the visiting room

  to the loneliness

  of Valley State

  Prison for Women.

  6

  GABE THE DOG

  ROUNDNESS

  Togetherness in the truck, on the way back from a flat place with high fences and sadness. Tony is quiet. Is he dreaming again? Is he wishing? Why does he act so lost in aloneness? I’m here. Right here. Does the boy know how much I love to study him? I watch his eyes, listen to his voice, smell his shoes, follow his hands with my nose. I need to understand this boy-silence!

  Leo is the first to speak. He notices how I stare at the boy, and he calls me a professor of human behavior. He says I could teach other dogs. This gets Tony’s attention. Teach me, the boy thinks, leaning close to press my ear with his nose as he tries to sniff my dog thoughts. Teach me, Tony begs with his silent-sad scent. Show me how to understand a prisoner-Mom who refuses to come into the visiting room, even though she knows her own son is waiting there with an eager social worker, waiting, waiting, waiting.…

  Teach me, Tony’s scent pleads, but I can’t. There’s a human strangeness, a mystery that I don’t know how to inhale.

  At twilight, on the way back uphill, we stop at a little park. The grass is dry and weedy, but everything smells delicious, like a name that rhymes with good or food.

  Leo tosses a ball for me to chase! I show Tony how to smell, taste, hear, see, and touch the ball’s rhyming, rolling, racing roundness. Chasing a ball right beside me, how can Tony still feel that human aloneness? He doesn’t! He understands this togetherness chase-game. He quickly learns to share my hunger for roundness!

  Spherical objects dazzle me. Tennis balls, oranges, apples, even my water bowl—any roundness will do. Roll, bounce, squeak!

  If I could chase the moon across the sky, I would,

  but every time I try, it flies too far,

  so I point my nose

  and sing.

  Watch out, moon!

  7

  TONY THE BOY

  INVISIBLE CLUES

  The visiting room at the prison

  looked like a cafeteria, but to reach it

  I had to pass through metal detectors

  and a massive

  scary

  sliding

  snap-shut

  gate.

  Mom left me waiting there

  with Leo and the social worker.

  Waiting, waiting, waiting.

  Like waiting in a nightmare.

  So I looked around for something

  good to remember. Anything

  good. Just a glimpse.

  All I saw was women

  in blue uniforms, mostly young,

  some with tattoos on their arms

  and faces, playing board games

  with quiet little kids

  and sad-looking grandmas.

  It looked almost normal,

  except for the silence

  of the children.

  So I had to peer farther

  for something worthy of memory.

  I gazed out a window and found

  a view of a green lawn.

  Clusters of women in blue

  walked in big circles,

  while others kneeled

  or stood

  with open mouths,

  singing.

  A few waved sticks of incense.

  Others had scarves on their heads.

  The social worker pointed out

  different groups—Catholics, Hindus,

  Protestants, Muslims.… Prison,

  she said, is open to all.

  I wondered what crimes

  the women had committed

  and how long it had taken

  before they started wanting

  to sing.

  Mom never showed up,

  so I asked to leave, and now,

  on the way back uphill, after

  the park, after a ball-chasing,

  moon-howling, hilarious

  moment of relief with Gabe,

  I start to hope there might be

  enough funny memories

  to balance

  the sad

  mad

  abandoned

  ones.

  The note Mom sent

  to the social worker said

  she wanted to watch a movie

  in the recreation room.

  She even named the actor she

  couldn’t stand to miss.

  I like movies too, but I’d rather

  have a family.

  The socia
l worker tried to be

  cheerful, but Tío was realistic.

  He told me he was furious.

  He said Mom must be ashamed

  to let me see her in prison.

  He also said the real shame

  was her worrying about her image

  instead of my feelings.

  Now, halfway up the mountain,

  his phone rings, so he pulls over

  and listens, nodding, agreeing

  to show up right away.…

  Pretty soon we’re headed

  to a search in the foothills,

  a real-live mystery search

  for a missing girl only three

  tiny years old—she’s

  the daughter of migrant

  farm workers, and she

  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.

 

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