Mountain Dog

by Margarita Engle

  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