How I Got a Life and a Dog

by Art Corriveau

  What’s wrong with my hair?

  I take the sponge away from her. I lead her over to the sofa. She slumps onto it, putting her head in her hands. “He’s going back to the pound first thing in the morning,” she says. “They can probably come and get him with gloves and nets. They deal with this sort of thing all the time.”

  “Please don’t call the pound,” I say, sitting beside her. “Please, Mom.”

  “NO!” she sobs. “He’s going back.”

  The landlord raps on his ceiling again.

  She covers her mouth with her hand. Her eyes fill up with tears.

  “Please,” I say.

  “He’s going back and that’s final,” she says. Her voice goes all quiet now—too quiet. “I absolutely refuse to put up with any more violent outbursts in my house,” she says. “Ever again.”

  Dad pounding on my locked bedroom door back in Littleton. Dad apologizing to me from the other side, using his smoothest salesman voice, trying to explain how it was all just a big misunderstanding, how everything’s under control now, how he and I should just play a video game while Mom finishes fixing dinner. I can hear Mom somewhere in the background sobbing. I’m huddled in my window seat, peeking out the blinds hoping the neighbors haven’t heard all the commotion and are staring out their window at us.

  I stare at the digitized wolves on TV. Mom tries to put her arm around my shoulder.

  I push her away.

  She says she needs me to be a little man about this.

  “Leave me alone!” I shout.

  The landlord pounds even harder.

  Mom stands. She wipes her tears away. She finishes cleaning up and shuts herself in her room. I make up the sofa bed. I click through the channels until I find a nature show about Australian dolphins. Supposedly the female dolphins don’t get along with the male dolphins very well. The females swim in pods to protect themselves and their babies against roving gangs of males that chase and attack them. That’s why dolphins are supposedly so intelligent. The males need to communicate with each other to figure out how they’re going to isolate and attack females; the females need to communicate with each other to figure out how they’re going to fight off the males and protect their babies. But here’s the thing: When the baby dolphins eventually grow up, the females have to push the young males out of their pod. Supposedly the young males don’t care; they just swim off to join the nearest male pod.

  I can hear Reggie pacing in the bathroom. Every once in a while, he scratches at the door. His high-pitched whine echoes off the shower tiles. But I can also hear Mom sobbing on her bed. So I just watch TV, pretending I’m deaf. Hours go by, seems like. I watch a game show next. I watch a behind-the-scenes show about a rock star from a hair band who became an alcoholic, lost everything, got helped by an angel, and then started singing about it. Mom finally stops crying. I listen while she undresses and shuts off the light. I wait a long, long time, until I finally hear her snoring. Then I tiptoe over to the bathroom door and let Reggie out.

  e licks every square inch of my face. I tell him to be quiet or we’ll get caught. I lead him over to the door and command him to stay. I fish my knapsack out of the closet. I dump everything that’s in it—my social studies book, my science book—and try to remember what to pack. Trouble is, I don’t actually have a flashlight or rain poncho or Swiss Army knife. I go to the kitchen and stuff a box of Galactic Crunch into the bag. I add my favorite cereal bowl and a spoon. Next I tuck in the two cans of dog food left from our last trip to the Supa-Sava, plus a can opener.

  I hesitate. I rip a piece of lined paper out of a notebook I just ditched. I scrawl out a quick note:

  Dear Mom,

  Reggie is sorry for attacking jumping on you. He just thought he was protecting his Master (me), which is what Man’s Best Friend (a dog) always does. The evidence suggests Reggie has had a hard life so far. I think Alf Santorello hit him with didn’t treat him very well. I’ll explain about him later. But Reggie can’t go back to the pound. I know you disagree about this. But I don’t think it’s right to ditch people (or dogs) you love no matter what the reason is. Especially if it’s all a big misunderstanding and they really want to change and said so a million times. If you want me back, it’s got to be a package deal. Plus we still need to talk about moving someplace else. Like California. It would be a fresh start for ALL of us. I’ll be in touch soon, to find out your answer.

  Love, Nicky

  I fold the note and stick it halfway under her bedroom door. I hook Reggie onto his leash and lead him out to the front stoop. I have no idea what we’re going to do next, but I do know this: Reggie would never attack me. I’m the only friend he’s got in the whole world.

  “What the heck is going on up there?”

  The landlord, standing at his doorway in his pajamas and slippers.

  “Oh, nothing,” I say. “TV must have been on a little loud.”

  “Sounded like the battle of Bunker Hill,” he says. He points at Reggie. “You better not be roughhousing up there with that dog. That carpet cost twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  I don’t answer. I run for it. Reggie scrambles after me. We don’t stop to catch our breath until we reach the end of Eden Street.

  Now what?

  Reggie starts tugging at his leash. He thinks we’re going on our usual rounds. I decide to let him lead me to the monument. Why not? It’s as good a place as any, I figure, to wait things out. “Forward!” I say, and we set off in that direction.

  A policeman is patrolling Monument Square when we get there. He asks me what I’m doing out so late. I tell him I’m just out walking my dog. He points to the signs that say KEEP OFF THE GRASS and NO DOGS ALLOWED. He tells me to head on home.

  “Any ideas?” I say to Reggie, once we’re back at the bottom of Monument Ave. He sniffs around a little, whines, and pees on a hydrant. Big help. I suddenly feel like crying again. But I don’t. I pull myself together, try to assess the situation. I think of all the places he’s taken me: up to the monument, across the Charlestown Bridge, down Hanover Street to Strazzulo’s, past Jenny’s house . . .

  Suddenly I have a plan.

  Reggie’s not going to like it much. I can’t say I do myself. But it’s the only thing I can think of. Plus I’m getting cold. My teeth are practically chattering.

  We do the normal route until we get to Noyes Place. That’s when Reggie figures the plan out. He stops. He takes a few steps backward.

  “Come on, boy,” I say. “It’ll be all right—you’ll see. He’s gone now. The house is totally empty. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  He sits. He stares down at his forepaws. He pretends he’s gone deaf. He knows better, I guess.

  I have to tug-of-war him the rest of the way to Old Alf’s stoop, just like earlier this afternoon. By the time I get him there, he’s groaning like crazy and trembling all over. “Shh,” I say. “You’ll wake the neighbors.” I try pulling him up the steps by his collar. He flops onto his back, with his feet sticking up in the air. He rolls his eyes at me. He is not going into that house for love nor money.

  Plan B, I guess.

  I pat Reggie’s head. I tell him it’s OK, I understand. I tell him to be a good boy and wait for me, right there at the bottom of the stoop—I just need to get warm for a few minutes. I don’t bother with tying him up. He’s not going to ditch me.

  I try the window next to the front door. It slides up a couple of inches and gets stuck. I push it a little harder. Old paint comes flying off the casing like a mini snowstorm, but the window only goes up about another inch or so. This time I give it a really hard shove. Reggie huffs at this—a short, whispery sort of bark—so I stop. Anyway, there’s just enough room now for me to squeeze through. “Not a peep,” I say to Reggie.

  I take the window headfirst, like I’m in a slow-motion dive. Well, not really. I get a little stuck halfway and have to flatten my rump to wiggle it past the windowsill. I land with a thud in the front hallway. Marky woul
d think this was fun. And maybe it would be if he were here. Then again, I wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.

  It’s pitch-dark because all the shades are drawn. I tug on the one over the window I’ve just crawled through. It rattles up and I jump about a foot. Outside, Reggie starts to whine. I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. I poke my head back through the window and shh him.

  Now there’s enough of an orange glow from the streetlamps, and I can sort of make out what’s what. Directly in front of me is a staircase, which must go up to the second floor. Through the archway to my right is a dining room; through the one to my left is a living room. All the furniture is really old and worn-out, and everything is coated in about an inch of dust. Pizza boxes, styrofoam containers. Plus that funny smell, like rotten food or a dead mouse.

  “Mr. Santorello?” I say—not too loud.

  No answer.

  “Mr. Santorello, are you there?”

  Nothing.

  I take a step toward the living room. It’s really dark beyond the archway. I freeze. Is that a man sitting there? No, it’s only an empty armchair.

  “Alf?”

  There’s a scratching noise at the front door. This time I jump about two feet. Get a grip, Nicky! It’s only Reggie. He must have sneaked to the top of the stoop after all.

  I go and unlock the door, open it a crack. “What?” I say.

  Reggie hangs his head and groans.

  “Well, what’s it going to be?” I say. “In or out?”

  He hesitates a second. He groans again. Then he slinks in.

  So it’s back to Plan A.

  Reggie turns his head right and sniffs. He turns left and sniffs again.

  “OK?” I say.

  He sneezes.

  Together we sneak into the living room. Reggie stops suddenly. The hackles on the back of his neck go up. I look where he’s looking. There’s a framed photo on a side table next to the sofa. It’s of Old Alf standing next to a dark-haired woman Mom’s age. I go over for a closer look, but Reggie makes that scary low growl again. “It’s OK, boy,” I say. I reach for the photo. Reggie bares his teeth. I stop. “It’s just a picture,” I say. He looks like he’s going to start barking, so I turn it facedown on the table. Reggie stops growling. He sniffs the air again. He sits and begins to pant.

  I open the living room blinds. Yikes, is it cold in here! I go into the dining room and take the tablecloth off the table. I bring it back to the living room and shake it out.

  Reggie watches my every move.

  On the sofa, I make a sort of sleeping bag out of the tablecloth. I crawl inside and arrange some of the sofa cushions around me. Then I coax Reggie to climb up onto the sofa. He’s not happy about it, but he does eventually. He circles twice, whines, sniffs the air. Finally he settles at my feet. I pet him and cover him with some of the tablecloth. I tell him to get some sleep, we’ve got a big day tomorrow. I lie back and close my eyes.

  Boy, what a mess I’m in right now.

  I can hear all the noises the house is making. Like somebody tiptoeing around upstairs. Like somebody rattling a key in the back door.

  There’s no way I’m going to sleep. I roll onto my side and try to wipe my mind clear. Pretend you’re playing one of your video games, Nicky. Pretend you’re listening to a decent hip-hop station on the car radio. Or drawing a picture.

  I draw a pretend picture on the insides of my eyelids.

  I’m at the Esplanade, on that island with all the kites near the Hatch Shell. I’m tossing a Frisbee to Reggie. The Frisbee’s brand-new and slices through the air like a flying saucer. Reggie is streaking along beneath it. He leaps up and snatches it out of the sky. He makes a perfect four-point landing with it clenched between his teeth. Then he trots back to me, smiling. They’re all cheering behind us: Sal and Floyd and Mickey sitting in lawn chairs, Mrs. Strazzulo grilling up pork chops and cutlets at a portable barbecue grill, Jenny and Mom setting a picnic table. Rita’s there, cheering me on from the sidelines. Even Marky’s there, because he’s visiting me in Boston for the weekend.

  My dad is there too.

  He’s the one clapping the loudest of all. And it’s Dad who comes strolling over to put his hand on my shoulder real gentlelike and say, Nice going, Nicky. That was really good. I’m proud of you. You too, Reggie.

  sit up wondering if I’ve really run away or if that was just part of the bad dream I was having. Sure enough, this isn’t my sofa, but Alf Santorello’s lumpy old plaid one. And covering me isn’t my faded Dr. Ice comforter but a greasy tablecloth.

  Where’s Reggie?

  I feel a little better as soon as I see him standing guard at the front door. I’m not completely alone. At least we’re in this together. “Attaboy!” I say. He scratches at the door and whines. Don’t blame him one bit. This place gives me the creeps too.

  I pull on my shoes. I slip my knapsack over my shoulders. I take the tablecloth back to the dining room. On the way, I notice a half-open closet in the entryway. I peek inside. It’s pretty much empty, except for whatever’s jangling on the back of the door. A leather harness! Reggie starts wagging his tail when he sees it. It must be his official guide-dog uniform. I stuff it into my knapsack. I let Reggie out onto the front stoop and set the knapsack at his forepaws. I tell him I’ll be right back. I step into the front entryway to lock the door from the inside. When I crawl out the little side window, I make sure to leave it open a crack—just in case.

  I take five great big gulps of fresh air. Boy does it feels good to be out of that pee-smelling dirty house, even if we have nowhere else to go.

  I wish Alf Santorello really was this nice old man who got mugged by a roving gang of BMX-riding Townies in spite of his faithful guide dog’s best efforts. I wish his daughter—the woman in the photo—and his grandson, not pictured, had come out from California to take care of him. I wish his grandson had kept him company by playing Monopoly and reading him books. And I wish it really was his grandson’s job to walk Reggie every afternoon to keep him in tip-top shape. Wouldn’t it be nice if Old Alf decided, once he got better, to move to California and live at his daughter’s house? Reggie would be living in California right now. He and Alf’s grandson would probably be strolling beneath the palm trees on Reggie’s day off, checking out the Avenue of the Stars.

  But that’s not what the evidence suggests.

  When you piece together all the clues, the evidence suggests Alf Santorello is a mean old guy with big black sunglasses who smells funny and always wears the same stained clothes. Someone who’s always losing his temper about something, yelling for no good reason at nice women like Jenny who just want to give his dog a little scratch behind the ears. The evidence suggests he raised that long white cane of his and hit Reggie with it whenever he couldn’t find anyone else to blame for mixing up his guide-dog commands. Which is probably why Reggie now has a bad hip. Which is also why Reggie freaks out whenever anyone—like Mom—raises a hand, even to high-five over getting a stupid kite up in the air. It’s probably also why Old Alf’s daughter lives as far away from him as she can get. She’s afraid he’ll lose his temper with her, or worse, with her son. In fact, it probably got so bad that Reggie said to himself, Enough is enough! and let his master step out into the street while a bicycle messenger was zipping past. Which is probably why Old Alf fired him and brought him back to the training school. And now Old Alf has no one, not even his daughter, not even his not-pictured grandson, which is why his place is a mess, because he couldn’t take care of himself with a broken ankle, and why he decided to sell it and move to that home for vets.

  Forget about it, Nicky. You got your own problems right now.

  I hook Reggie onto his everyday leash. Looks like it’s going to be another sunny fall day outside. TGIF. Yeah, right. Reggie starts tugging me in the direction of the Charlestown Bridge. “Stop!” I say. He stops and sits. I kneel down beside him, so that we’re facing each other eye-to-eye. “Charlestown’s off-limits,” I tell
him. “At least until Mom chills out a bit.” He licks my chin. Trouble is, a lot of places are off-limits today: Monument Square, Hanover Street, my school . . . “We’re just going to have to find someplace new to hang out,” I say.

  Boy, do I gotta pee. (I was way too freaked out last night to do any exploring at Old Alf’s place.) So the first stop is the nearest park or public restroom . . .

  And suddenly I get this really great idea.

  emember this?” I say, pointing down at the red-brick line in the sidewalk. “It’s the Freedom Trail.” Reggie cocks his head and his usual cartoon question mark appears between his ears. “Let’s just follow it for a while,” I say. “See where it takes us.” Reggie looks back toward Hanover Street. “Not in that direction,” I say. “Into Boston. You and I have never really been there much, except for that time we went kite flying at the Esplanade.” I skip mentioning the time he ended up at the vet to have the philodendron pumped out of his stomach.

  The red-brick line leads us out of the North End to this brand-new park they’ve built over what they call the Big Dig. Supposedly they’ve dug a tunnel right beneath our feet so that all the honking and beeping of the traffic jams on I-93 can happen underground, where nobody will hear it. That said, Reggie and I still have to put up with a fair amount of honking and beeping from cab drivers aboveground as we cross Atlantic Avenue and follow the red-brick line into the park. We wind our way through a bunch of ugly new sculptures—modern art, supposedly—till we finally get to a super-nice area called Quincy Market on the other side, where there are all sorts of shops and restaurants—and a restroom. Dad and I ate lunch here that day we did the Freedom Trail, in a gigantic food court in Faneuil Hall. It was here where, supposedly, the patriots met to plan how they were going to revolt against England and form their own country. Dad told me I could buy whatever I wanted from whichever stall, something Mom would never let me do. So I had not one but two hot dogs called Fenway Franks, named after the ballpark where the Red Sox play, because that’s what they eat, I guess, in between innings. Dad had New England clam chowder served in a bowl made out of sourdough bread. We sat on a stone bench outside so we could people-watch as we ate. Dad promised to take me to a Red Sox game sometime, if they were ever on a winning streak again.