Ground pounders! a loud voice
proclaims. Gracie. Trumpeting.
Knowing it all. Explaining.
If I wasn’t so eager to understand
absolutely everything about this urgent
search for a lost kid,
I’d ignore her noisy voice,
but Gracie flashes her press pass—
Great story! she booms.
Great headline!
Soon I’ve learned that ground pounders
are volunteers who search on foot
without dogs, horses, or vehicles,
just headlamps, flashlights,
and their voices, shouting
the little girl’s name
as they go,
until they vanish
beyond streaks of moonlight.
I know I’m supposed to stay close
to Gracie’s grandma, but Gabe
is out there, leading Tío
under gnarled trees
with twisted branches
that look like natural statues
of beasts.
I’m not afraid to solve
this kind of eerie problem.
It’s not math or meanness.
It’s a mystery, and I need to help,
so when Gracie and B.B. are looking
the other way, I sneak
away
quietly
creeping
silently
wondering
how terrible
my punishment
will be, once my uncle
finally realizes
that I’ve disobeyed.
By the time Tío notices
that I’m right beside him,
he’s as focused as a laser beam,
following Gabe, who races ahead
sniffing
in a zigzag pattern
solving
the mystery
searching for invisible
scent clues.
Gabe leads us beyond apple trees
to huge oaks, where an owl hoots
in shivery air, and my drumbeat heart
pounds with hope!
Movement. A silhouette.
Growling sounds. Fox? Coyote?
Bobcat? No! It’s a dog, tiny
and white, fuzzy but tough
as it lunges and yaps at Gabe.
The little girl’s pup stands his ground,
defending, protecting. He’s a brave,
rabbit-size guard dog,
and close behind him, the girl
is half-hidden by a droopy branch,
her round face radiant
in moonlight.
Tío wakes her, talks to her,
checks her for injuries, then calls
the sheriff on his two-way radio,
to report the good news.
Somehow, at the exact same time,
he manages to throw a ball for Gabe
and reward him with praise
delivered in a high, squeaky voice
that sounds like pure excitement.
Hugging her dog, the girl looks
so calm that I wonder if she knew
she was lost.
I can imagine how she feels.
I used to wander all over the city,
following loyal puppies wherever
they roamed.
Back at base camp, the toddler’s parents
cry and hug her, then they hug me,
and Gabe and Tío, and especially
the fuzzy pup.
I love you, the mother tells me
in two languages. Te quiero. Spanish.
A sad-happy sound that I haven’t heard
since I was little, when Mom wasn’t
quite so completely
lost.
8
GABE THE DOG
HIDE-AND-SEEK
The tiny girl’s scent rhymes with home. Before the woods, back in the apple place, I could already follow her aroma of home rhyme. There is a skin smell, and baby sweat, soap, pillow, blanket, milk from her breath, and a baking-swirl of floating kitchen scents, fluffy cake made with stirred streaks of sugar, flour, salt, butter, and orchids—wild orchids—dry vanilla pods from some faraway forest.
There’s the metal and fuel smell of the oven that baked the cake, and the fragrance of safety the girl felt while she was eating, before she followed her dog past the apple place to hide.
Her feet smell like orchard, but her hands are pure puppy, and she isn’t afraid, not even when Leo, my wonderful Leo, changes his voice from ordinary to play-with-me!
It’s that yipping, playful-workful, wild-pack-of-dogs-hunting voice that I love most of all, even more than chasing roundness, or sniffing old apple scraps on the orchard floor. It’s the voice that makes me forget to keep wondering why my Leo couldn’t find the girl’s scent trail himself. I don’t understand human noses.
9
TONY THE BOY
FENCES
The quiet woods come alive
at midnight. On our way back
to the cabin, with the windows
of the truck wide open,
Gabe sniffs wild-animal smells
in the breeze. I catch a glimpse
of a deer, and there are cries
from owls
and coyotes,
and smaller noises, too,
a buzz of insects, the clang
of bullfrogs.
A black bear glides across the road,
framed by the glow of our headlights.
My uncle smiles and says he knows
this particular bear
because it’s a friend
of Gracie’s beautiful
grandma.
Tío is a mystery. Will I ever
understand him? Does he want
to talk about B.B.? Is he in love?
The bear passes as swiftly
as one of Mom’s worst moods.
Will everything always feel
so dangerous?
Later, in the cabin, my uncle
talks to me about sneaking out to join
the search. Volunteers have to be
eighteen and expertly trained,
tested and certified by county,
state, and federal agencies.
Risk. Insurance. Liability.
Responsibility.
Tío’s stern lecture sounds
like a spelling list.
All I want to think about
is Gabe’s heroic triumph,
the little girl’s safety,
and her tiny dog’s
loyalty.
I could make up my own
spelling test, put all the words
in one sentence: Canine trail angels
are intelligent, courageous,
amazing, magical …
but tough pit bulls and rough moms
can be ominous, unpredictable,
perilous,
and painful.
I accept my uncle’s scolding in silence,
because I know I broke a big rule,
and Tío is still talking, explaining
that he needs to trust me.
When he’s finished, he adds,
Do you have any questions, mi’jo,
anything at all?
Mi’jo. Mi hijo. My son. My uncle
just called me son! Yes, I have lots
of questions, but the only one I suddenly
need to ask right away
is about the fighting dogs. Their safety
is my question. Those puppies were like
brothers to me. What happened to them
when Mom went to prison
and I came here?
Have they been adopted?
Do they have good homes
with patient foster parents
like Tío?
My uncle looks troubled.
He admits that the toughest dogs
might ne
ver find homes, but he also
assures me that the others
are safe now.
Safe now.
Safe.
My echoing mind almost misses
the chance to ask one more
big question: Why does B.B. study
scary bears? How did she learn
to be so beautifully
brave?
The answer is a surprise.
Tío explains that Gracie’s grandma
was attacked a long time ago,
when she stepped in between
a mother bear and a cub.
The scars healed, so now she talks
to campers about bears, and she talks
to the bears about staying away
from campgrounds, trash cans,
and foolishly daring people.…
She isn’t brave, Tío explains,
just educated and wise.
I want to ask more about the way
he looks at her, but I’m too shy
to talk about feelings.
The next day, at school,
I’m exhausted. Since the kids
in my class are different ages,
I get to work at my own pace.
Slowing down really helps.
If only there was some way
to make my shadowy
fear of the future
slow down too.
Maybe I would feel brave
in this classroom of strangers
if I had a loud voice like Gracie
and could ask nosy questions,
but I don’t. I’m quiet
and scared,
so finally, I dare myself
to try
something new.
I accept the teacher’s offer
to help Gracie write online articles
about search-and-rescue dogs
like Gabe—their elaborate training,
their dedicated handlers,
all the human-canine
teamwork
and courage.
I’ve seen a few of Gracie’s articles,
and I don’t know how I’ll ever manage
to write in that confident tone,
so I just decide to write the way I think,
with bursts of alternating
dread
and hope.
Online, I study Gracie’s choice
of topics. There’s a funny piece
about a local robbery. Peaches
were stolen from a cabin. The sheriff
found evidence: a smashed window,
an overturned table, and a trail
of peach juice smeared
on huge paw prints
that proved the burglar
was a bear.
The next article is sad. Old folks
at a retirement home told Gracie
that the one thing that’s changed
the most since they were young
is fences. They can remember
crossing mountains in any direction,
limited only by rocky cliffs,
wild rivers,
and time.
Now, at night, my dreams
are filled with the spiky fences
around fighting-dog kennels
and the electrified ones
around prisons
and the wall between Mom’s mind
and mine.
Will there ever be any way
to leap or climb over
that invisible height?
At school, language-arts hour
is a relief from worries
and dream-fears
and math.
The poetry assignment feels
easy and free. Maybe words
are my strength.
I could turn out to be
a superhero
with secret
syllable powers.
I want to keep my poem quiet,
but Gracie volunteers to read
her verse out loud. It’s a funny
rhymed poem about visiting
her parents in India
and making huge, fruity Popsicles
for elephants—each one has a funny,
way of eating
a bucket-size ice ball.
Some stomp and gobble.
Others nibble delicately.
There’s one—Gracie’s favorite—
that lifts the ice and lets it melt
on top of his head, so he can reach
up, up, up
with his trunk
to pluck huge chunks
of mangos and melons
at leisure.
My quiet poem is about waiting.
I write it from Gabe’s
energetic dog point of view,
imagining how he feels
when he’s eager to work
and anxious to play
even though he’s been
commanded to stay.
The teacher says it’s good,
and when I ask her to please
never make me read it out loud,
she’s nice enough to agree.
After that, school isn’t too bad,
but by the time spring break
comes around, I’m ready for time off.
Gabe time. Dog time. Dirty, dusty,
rolling around in grass time.
Laughing, adventurous forest time.
Tío time. Family time.
Each time I think of my uncle
and his dog as a real family,
I have to correct myself.
Remind myself.
Foster family.
Temporary.
Fragile.
Spring break means riding
around in the truck
from one campground to another,
listening to Tío as he leads nature hikes
on trails so remote and beautiful
that I hardly even notice
the bear tracks.
We sleep in a tent, Gabe’s snorts
and my uncle’s snores blending
like a chorus of weird, funny music.
Life in a tent feels so different
that it’s easy for me to pretend
I’m on an expedition
in a magical land
where nightmares don’t exist
and all the dreams
are peaceful.
During Tío’s nature hikes, I learn
how to recognize rattlesnakes,
poison oak, and wild foods.
If you’re lost in the forest,
wilderness lore says you can eat miner’s lettuce
and certain lily roots,
but not camas lilies.
You can make fishing line
from stinging-nettle fibers,
ink from pigeon berries,
chewing gum from sugar pine sap.
By the second day of spring break,
I know more about wilderness
than I ever knew about my own
scary home
in the city.
Mountain lion tracks
have a letter m at the base
of each paw print.
A snake moving fast
usually makes a zigzag print,
while a slow, relaxed snake
tends to leave a straight line.
A bear’s short front feet
leave tracks that look a lot
like a big dog’s paw prints,
but the long back feet of a bear
leave eerie shapes that almost
look human.
By the third day of spring break,
I’ve learned that yellow-bellied marmots
resemble giant squirrels, but they chew wires
under the hoods of cars, leaving campers
stranded and furious.
If a painted lady butterfly lands
on your nose, it’s tasting your skin,
drinking
salt.
When lightning is about to strike,
wilderness lore says your hair stands up, just like
in old cartoons, so you have to
plant your feet wide apart
and curl your body downward,
and tuck your head so you’re not
tall and skinny like a lightning rod.
It’s the opposite with mountain lions.
If you see one, reach up and stretch—
try to look big and brave.
Don’t turn your back or run.
Never look like prey.
Each night, in the tent, I review
newly memorized wildflowers.
Fireweed, paintbrush, sky pilot.
Names designed
for dreaming.
By the time spring break ends,
I feel so close to Tío that I’m afraid
to return to the cabin and break
the wild spell.
But Easter morning at Cowboy Church
feels dreamlike too. The sunrise service
begins with a horseback drill-team dance.
Gracie is in the lead, galloping at full speed
around and around,
performing pirouettes
and figure eights.
I sit on the corral fence,
wondering how long it takes
to learn full-gallop courage.
Gabe is busy with other dogs,
but Tío and B.B. are nearby,
talking and smiling like they might
turn out to be a lot more
than friends.
The thought makes me cringe.
If Tío married B.B., would Gracie
be my stepniece?
Luckily, I have better things
to think about, because later that same day,
all of us pack a picnic and drive to a grove
of giant sequoia trees. I stand at the base
of one of the oldest, most enormous
living things in the world,
a tree so huge that one branch
looks as big
as a whole
peaceful
forest.
The calmness I absorb in that grove
stays with me for days, until Mom
suddenly starts calling to apologize
for avoiding my visit.
She claims it’s the fault of lifers
who keep trying to lure her
into fights so she’ll get in real trouble
and end up with a life sentence
like theirs.
I don’t know why she bothers
to dump her prison troubles on me.
She can’t be dumb enough to fall
into another fighting trap.
She’ll probably get out on time,
and then she’ll want me back,
and I’ll have to go
but I can’t imagine
giving up Gabe.
Maybe I could sneak him away
with me …
but then he’d have to
learn how to fight
against pit bulls,
and that would
make me
even more greedy
and selfish
than Mom.
I’d be
a monster
Mountain Dog Page 3
