by Linda Coggin
But I’m not listening. Jack has wrapped newspaper all over his legs and tied them up with string. And some of the paper looks really old.
“You looking at my newspapers, girl? They keep Jack warm, see. It can turn nippy at night and these newspapers do the trick. Remember that, Pip.” He turns to the boy. “Remember that, if you’re still on the streets when it gets really cold.”
Still on the streets? No bed? Apart from those nights under the bushes, I’ve always had somewhere to sleep. And I wasn’t happy under those bushes. And I’m not sure I am going to be happy in the station parking lot either. But at least I have Pip. Jack has asked me to be Pip’s dog and so I will. I’ll be the best dog anyone’s ever had. I will be loyal, obedient, and protect him as best I can.
I want to ask Pip what he is doing in the station parking lot. Why he doesn’t have a home to go to and where his mom and dad are. But I don’t want to be a nuisance when we have just met. So I lie still, one eye half open, just to make sure that Pip is going to be OK. It seems like a very long night.
In the morning, Pip tells me we will go and look for food.
“You coming, Jack?” he says to the old man. But Jack shakes his head.
“Not feeling too good today, Pip. It’s my chest. Damp socks, you know. You go. Take care. Don’t let them take that dog. And don’t let them take you either.”
Pip grins, puts a knitted hat on, and gives me a little tug. He has made me a collar and leash out of some twine, and I trot happily along at his side. It’s quiet in the lot now, and the soup wagon is gone. I can hear Jack coughing as we leave through the gate.
It is still quite early and very few people are around. Out in the street, Pip goes through the trash barrels, just like I did.
“Here we are, Ray. Here’s some leftover chicken.”
I gratefully chew around the bone. I am impressed that he has fed me before himself.
“Thanks,” I say, and wag my tail at him. “Barbecued chicken’s my favorite after spaghetti and meatballs and Thai green curry.”
Pip finds a discarded sandwich, a brown banana, and a half-empty can of Coke. He thirstily drinks from the can — only to spit it out seconds later.
“Aargh! Someone put a cigarette out in it. That’s disgusting.”
I sympathize with him and continue to nibble on the chicken.
We move into the park and Pip goes to sit on the swings.
“You know, Ray,” he says, “we’ve got to be careful. I ran away from foster parents, and if I’m found they’ll get me back or lock me up somewhere so’s that I don’t escape again.”
“Me too!” I tell him, and he strokes the top of my head.
“My mom died, see. So I was taken into state care. But it hasn’t worked out and . . .” He bends down to whisper in my ear. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
I hold my breath. No one has told me a secret since Susan Maitland confided in me that her mom had won the lottery and was scared that people would ask her for money if they found out.
“I’m going to look for my dad! He doesn’t know, and I’ve never met him. I’m not sure he even knows he is a dad. Mom met him at college when they were seniors, and she moved away before she found out she was pregnant. She told me that she was so happy with me she couldn’t see the point in trying to find him and tell him.”
I wag my tail and jump up at him, thrilled with the similarity of our stories. Well, of course he hasn’t died or become a dog. But we are both looking for our dads and neither of them know of our existence.
“My mom’s dead,” he goes on, “and she didn’t tell me about my dad until just before she died. But she gave me a picture of him.” Pip digs into his pocket and produces an old black-and-white photograph of a young man who looks just like him. He shows it to me proudly.
“He looks nice,” I say encouragingly.
Other people begin to arrive at the playground, and Pip decides we should move on. We walk back into town and Pip shows me the library.
“I like it in here,” Pip says as we walk up the steps. “I go and read the newspapers and look through the telephone directories for my dad. I haven’t found him yet.”
“You can’t come in with that dog, young man,” says a voice behind the desk. “Didn’t you see the sign? Guide dogs only.”
“But I am a guide dog,” I say. “Well, I will be when I find my dad.”
“Shhh!” the voice continues. “This is a library!”
Pip looks disappointed. I want to say he could go on in and I’ll wait outside, but he just says “Sorry!” and takes me out. I think that’s nice of him, not leaving me, and I give him a little lick to make up for it. He takes his hat and jacket off, and we sit on the jacket at the bottom of the steps. I sit cheerfully at his side, watching. There’s plenty to look at and it’s warm, being in the sun. Pip seems quite happy just sitting there. I suppose he is making a Plan, like I did. I hope I’ll be included in it, whatever it is.
I lie down and put my head on my paws. I shut my eyes. It is getting busy now and lots of people are walking past us. Suddenly I hear a clunking sound by my head. I get up with a start. Someone has tossed a quarter into Pip’s hat.
“That’s because of you, Ray!” he says, taking the coin out of the hat. Then he changes his mind and puts it back again. “Let’s just stay here for a bit, eh? I feel like we’re lucky for each other.”
By the end of the morning, there is three dollars and fifty cents in Pip’s hat. He buys me a bone from the market and a ham sandwich. It feels good, being with Pip.
When we get back to the parking lot Jack is pleased with his sandwich, though I notice he doesn’t eat all of it. He coughs quite a lot and puts the rest in his pocket for later.
Apart from Jack, Pip doesn’t seem to have any friends either. What I like about him not having any friends is that he talks to me. He tells me he’s come to Greenville by train.
“When I ran away I knew they’d send the police or the social worker to find me, so I thought I’d better get on a train. I just got on the first one that was leaving. It was exciting. I had to jump over the barriers and I only got on the train because someone had gotten their coat caught in the door and it hadn’t locked right. I had no idea what direction I was going in. I had to get off at Greenville because I didn’t have a ticket and the conductor was coming around. I had to hide in the bathroom until the train stopped at the station. That’s how I met Jack, in the parking lot. So I was lucky, wasn’t I? I wouldn’t have met you either!” He lays his head on my neck.
For the next few days our routine is the same. We find some food somewhere, go to the park, and sit on the library steps. Often the best food is from the farmers’ market after the produce people have gone. There are some really good things. Apples, peaches, only a little bruised. I wish Mom knew about waiting for the market to pack up. She always wanted to get there early to get the best.
I’m not giving up on finding Mom and Dad, even though I’m with Pip now. And if I do, I’ll show Mom the market when they’ve closed down. See, that would all be part of being a guide dog. Showing her things. And if I do find Mom and Dad, and Pip doesn’t find his dad, maybe he can come and live with us.
There’s so much I want to know about Pip. Has he ever been to Turkey? Did he have a girlfriend? Where did he go to school? But he hasn’t told me these things yet and I can’t get him to understand that I want to know.
I try staring at him very hard to project my thoughts into his. Sort of like a psychic. But he just laughs and strokes my neck.
“What is it, Ray? Are you hungry?”
Then one day the librarian comes out and asks us to move.
“You’re making people not want to come into the library,” she says. “Why don’t you go home?”
“We don’t have a home,” I snap at her. “Isn’t that obvious?”
But Pip just says “Sorry,” and we get up and leave.
We walk along the sidewalk. There is a family in front o
f us with a woman pushing a carriage with a wailing child.
“Jodie!” she shouts. “Where are you?” Someone pushes past us — a girl about my age — and there is something familiar about her. I look at her. She’s eating an ice cream and it’s dribbling down onto her pretty dress. It’s the dress that looks familiar, I realize. It’s turquoise with pink flowers on it. Then I realize it’s my dress she’s wearing! It couldn’t have been anyone else’s because my auntie made it for me and I chose the fabric with her. What is this girl doing in my dress? And then I remember Goodwill and how when my grandfather died, Mom sorted out his clothes and took them there. I remember wondering what she would think if she saw someone wearing her dad’s suit or nice Fair Isle sweater that Grandma had knitted for him. And now here was a girl wearing my dress! Mom must have taken my things to Goodwill too. How many other girls are walking around in my clothes? I wonder. Who’s got my new skinny jeans that I’d only had for a couple of weeks? And my fake Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie I bought in Turkey?
I want to go and say something to her, but Pip is crossing the road and I don’t want to lose him. I am wondering now what they buried me in. I hope it wasn’t the bridesmaid dress I wore at my cousin’s wedding. That was ghastly and made me look completely childish. It had puffy sleeves and a full skirt. They told me I’d be able to wear it as my prom dress if I let the hem down. Honestly, everybody at school would have laughed at me if I’d shown up in that. I’d like to have been buried in my new coat with the fake-fur collar and, under that, the beautiful long sea-green dress with the thin straps I saw when I was out shopping with Mom.
When we get back to the station Jack hasn’t moved from his usual spot. His feet are sticking out from underneath his makeshift sleeping bag as if they can’t bear to be contained and had to make a break for freedom. I go over and lick his face. He seems hot in spite of the fact that the weather has turned and is getting colder. His clothes are damp too.
“He’s not well, Pip,” I say. “Can’t we get him to the hospital or something?”
Pip kneels down at his side.
“Jack! Are you all right?”
But Jack doesn’t stir. His breath is rasping.
“Come on, Ray. We’ll have to find a pharmacy and get him something.”
I wag my tail. Good idea, I think.
We leave Jack where he is and go back into town. We find a supermarket that has a drugstore in it, and Pip leaves me tied up outside.
“You’re not allowed in the store, Ray. So you’ll have to stay here. If anything happens to me you have to get out of here. If anyone thinks you’re with me they may put you in the pound. Maybe go back to the station if you can find it. Do you understand?”
I wag my tail at him again. It seems the best way to show my agreement. But what on earth is going to happen to him, I want to know? As far as I can see he is going to get something that will help Jack get better and we will give it to him and everything will be all right.
“Good luck!” I say. “Take care!” I’m beginning to feel uneasy about the whole thing. Pip goes into the store and I sit down and wait for him.
It is just like having to wait for Mom when she went shopping. “I’m just going to run into the shop, Daisy, I won’t be two seconds!”
A million, squillion seconds later she’d be hurrying back to the car.
“Sorry, darling — there was such a line! And then I couldn’t decide whether to buy the brown one or the green one. So I bought both!”
After a while Pip runs back out of the store.
“Quick, Ray,” he says, and bends down and unties me. But just as he does, a man and a woman come up behind him. They are wearing uniforms, but I don’t think they are the police. For a start, the man has a grubby mark on his jacket where he dropped something he was eating. I am sure that policemen aren’t allowed to have grubby marks on their uniforms. They are probably not even allowed to eat in their uniforms. I suddenly have an image of a lot of policemen eating their sandwiches in their hats and underpants.
“We have reason to believe that you have taken something that does not belong to you. Without paying for it. Would you please empty out your pockets, sir?”
Pip does as he is told and takes out a box of pills from his jacket.
I look at him. I can see for a moment, in his eyes, the temptation to make a run for it. But the man has a firm grip on his arm.
“They’re for a friend. He’s very sick. I wanted to give them to him,” says Pip, with a look at me that says, Help me out here, Ray. So I chip in.
“Look. Pip is not a thief. It’s just that we haven’t got any money and Jack is sick. It’s his damp socks, you see. He’s got some sort of chest infection and the pills are supposed to make him better. Though personally, I thought we should have taken him to the hospital.”
“This your dog?” says the woman. “It hasn’t got a collar or tags.”
Pip looks at me sadly.
“No!” he says. “I don’t know who it belongs to.”
“Looks like a customer for the dog pound, then,” the man says, taking his phone out of his pocket.
A small crowd of people have gathered around like they’re watching a piece of street theater.
I remember what Pip said about getting out of here, and as his eyes widen I know I have to make a run for it. And I do. As I race for the corner, I can see Pip being led back into the store. The small crowd is still there. I want to go back and help him. Perhaps go for the man’s throat or bite the woman’s calves. I know this is sheer bravado and also that hanging around with a piece of string around my neck is not a good option. So I keep on running. But it isn’t the joyous run I first made in the park, when I escaped from Cyril. It is more like the dream. And I run blindly, scattering people as I charge along the pavement. My mouth is dry and my tongue is hanging out and I can feel saliva gathering in the corners of my mouth.
“What’s up with that dog?” I hear someone say.
“It’s probably got rabies. Did you see its eyes?”
“Rabies!” someone else screams.
Rabies? I think. Oh, how ridiculous! Where was I going to get rabies from?
But by now there is a stream of people chasing me along the sidewalk. My heart is racing even faster than my legs. If only Pip were with me. If only I had wings like that guy in the myth who flew too near the sun. I try to think of his name as I tear across the square. But all I can remember is staring out the window during class and watching Owen Taylor play soccer. I was sure he had winked at me and I took no notice of Mr. Pearce droning on about the dangers of the sun. Then I realized that Owen Taylor had just gotten some mud in his eye.
“He should have been wearing SPF 30, shouldn’t he?” said Jessica Warner to a giggling class. “Look. Daisy Fellows is bright red. Maybe she got too close to the sun!”
It’s because of all this thinking that I don’t see the bicycle. It shouldn’t be on the sidewalk anyway. It’s dangerous riding on the sidewalk and can cause an accident. Which is exactly what happens.
As I race past, my piece of trailing string gets caught up in the pedals. The bike and the man riding it topple over and we all go crashing to the ground.
Then I suddenly remember. “Icarus!” I say. “Icarus! Icarus!” I’m sure it must sound as if I’m swearing bloody murder as I fall.
Another crowd of people gathers around. Perhaps not as many as probably collected by our car when it crashed. But still, quite a sizable crowd. More than were outside the supermarket.
“Is the dog all right?” an elderly woman asks.
“Damn the dog,” says the man, crawling out from underneath the bicycle. “Doesn’t matter about the dog! What about me? I’ve hurt my ankle and I’ve torn my pants!”
“You shouldn’t have been riding on the sidewalk, pal!” someone shouts out.
“Yes! That’s just what I was thinking,” I say. “What do you think the road’s for?” I begin to sound like my dad so I shut up.
�
��Oh, you poor thing,” says another person, detangling the string and stroking my head. I look wildly around me to see if the Rabies People are there, but they must have given up a few blocks back.
“Does this dog belong to anyone?” comes a stern voice. A voice of authority. The kind of voice that wears a uniform. And I am right! A policeman walks up to the scene. He definitely doesn’t have any stains on his uniform, and I can see my face in the shine on his boots as he approaches me. “And what were you doing riding on the sidewalk, sir?”
We all murmur in agreement.
“What do you think the road’s for?”
The policeman gets out his walkie-talkie. “OK!” he continues. “So no one owns the dog?”
A few people shake their heads. There is a lot of crackling coming from his handset, and holding my string firmly, he walks to the corner to get better reception.
I know what he is doing. He is calling the dog pound.
My kennel cell is between Max, a bull terrier, and Toby, a mutt.
Neither of them says much. In fact, neither of them says anything, and I only find out their names because one of the wardens is showing two people around.
“This is Max,” she says, stopping outside his door. “Max is afraid of strangers and loud noises. He’d prefer a quieter life and could live with children, provided they’re not very young. Do you have children?”
The couple look doubtful and then suddenly remember that indeed they do have two very young children.
“Now this is Toby,” she goes on, ignoring me completely. “Toby is a misunderstood dog who does not do well with stress. He would like to relax in a home where little is expected of him. But he does like doing obstacle courses, like running through tunnels and over jumps.”
Golly, what tunnels? I think. Sounds fun — a little like gym class. As long as there’s no rope climbing. For some reason I’ve never been good at climbing ropes.
“Come along, Daisy!” Ms. Roberts would cry. “Think monkey!”
Perhaps that’s what they’ll say when it comes to my turn. “This is Ray. She hasn’t been with us long so we don’t know much about her, but she’s absolutely hopeless at climbing ropes.”
