Birdie For Now

by Jean Little

  Dickon hoped so too. Tomorrow. He had not realized that the class was almost over. Well, maybe he had, but he had forced his thoughts to keep away from the subject. He went home and tried to eat the lunch his mother had left for him, but he could not finish. That afternoon, everyone worked hard.

  “I don’t want the training to end,” Jenny said. “Perkins is doing fine, but couldn’t we go on and work toward those Obedience Trials they have at dog shows? I went once with my aunt and it was cool.”

  Leslie looked thoughtful.

  “Maybe we could consider offering an advanced class,” she said slowly.

  Dickon’s heart leapt and then he remembered. Birdie was not his. If they had this advanced class, he would have no dog to train.

  He wakened on Friday knowing the day of testing had come. What if Birdie blew it?

  “You have to eat more than that,” Mum said, looking at his plate. “Are you sick? Should I stay home?”

  “No,” he yelped, in panic. “I was just resting.”

  He stuffed in some toast.

  Then she was gone and he ran to pick up Birdie. A friend of Leslie was the judge. She looked serious. Dickon crossed his fingers and wished.

  Birdie was practically perfect. She sat when he told her to sit. She stayed and then she came to him, circling behind him and sitting down on his left side. She walked at heel as though she had never done anything else.

  Dickon felt smug. Tallboy had done almost everything sloppily and had refused to come until he had had two leash corrections. Poppet kept lying down when she was supposed to be sitting. Little Hercules tripped Kristin up. Dog after dog did something wrong. But not his Birdie.

  Only “Sit … stay” was left, the command where he would walk away from her, wait one minute and call her to him. She loved doing this one. It was her best thing.

  “Sit, Birdie. Stay!” he said firmly, giving her the hand signal.

  Head high, he strode away.

  Jingle, jingle. Somebody’s rabies tag and dog license were clinking together.

  Not Birdie’s, he told himself, star ing straight ahead.

  The other kids were laughing. A dog was dancing at his heels. He turned his head ever so slightly to check.

  She was right behind him, looking proud of herself.

  “Oh, Birdie, no!” he wailed.

  “Try again,” Leslie said, “even though she has already lost the points.”

  “We’ve all had this experience,” the judge said kindly. “Perhaps she’s a bit young.”

  She wasn’t. Blushing, he reseated his dog and told her again what to do. This time she remained exactly where he had left her.

  “Birdie, COME!” he called.

  When she romped over to him, he was still so proud of her he wanted to hug her.

  Leslie handed him a certificate. She also gave him a dog biscuit. “You two have surely earned this,” she said.

  The other kids clapped. Dickon had never been so proud.

  “Time to eat,” Sally said, smiling at them.

  Then Dickon glanced through the wire fence into his own backyard. Mrs. Nelson was watching.

  Next to her stood his mother.

  Battle is Joined

  Dickon thrust the leash at Leslie.

  “I gotta go,” he gasped.

  “But, Dickon …” she began.

  “My mother’s there,” he whispered and ran. He dashed around the Humane Society building and raced home.

  “Mum, Mum,” he shouted, “I can explain. Birdie needed me. Leslie will tell you …”

  He broke off. She wasn’t there.

  “Where are you?” he shrieked.

  She came out of the bathroom. Her head was bent. She had been crying. He saw her grip her hands together to stop them shaking.

  “I trusted you,” she said in a small tight voice.

  “I know, Mum, but you don’t understand. Wait till I tell you.”

  “Don’t bother. Amy Nelson has al-ready told me. She knew. I trusted her too. You both betrayed …”

  Her words choked on a hiccupy sob. She turned her back on him. Her shoulders heaved.

  He knew, with a sick feeling, that she meant him to see her like that, just as she wanted him to hear that ugly word “betray.”

  Dickon was beside himself. If only she would listen! He was in big trouble. Maybe he deserved to be. He had disobeyed her.

  But he had not lied. Not in words anyway.

  “I’ve put macaroni and cheese in to heat. Leave me alone until it’s ready,” she said.

  Her bedroom door shut in his face. He stood there numb with shock. What should he do? He gritted his teeth. Well, he would not cry. She hadn’t listened. His anger was a tight knot in his chest. His throat ached.

  The phone rang. Was she going to get it? No. He picked the receiver up on the sixth ring.

  “Hello,” he said. His voice sounded far away.

  “Julie?”

  “No,” he said, recognizing Mrs. Nelson’s voice. “It’s me, Dickon. She’s lying down. She said to leave her alone.”

  “Well, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Surely a boy has a right to go next door and help train a needy dog. You weren’t out of sight of my window once. Tell her to call me when she gets up.”

  He hung up, feeling braver. Some-body was on his side.

  All at once, he knew that he was not the one who should be saying “sorry.” His mother had been unfair. She had made up her mind that he was bad without giving him a chance to speak. He stomped back out the front door, slamming it behind him, and kicked the step until his toes hurt.

  In that instant, he decided. He was not baby Birdie, Julie’s little Dickie Bird. Not any longer. He was Dickon Fielding. And about time too.

  He shivered at his own daring, but he had made up his mind. He was going to fight her for Birdie. And he was going to win.

  The door opened.

  “Oh,” his mother said, startled. “I heard the door shut and I thought you’d run off …”

  Dickon faced her. He did not jiggle or jump. He did not plead either. He did not shed a tear. He spoke slowly, his voice rock steady.

  “I want Birdie,” he said.

  “Birdie is that dog Amy Nelson was talking about, is it? Who decided on that name, if I may ask?” Her tone was icy.

  “Not me,” he yelled at her. “The kid who abused her thought her ears looked like wings. They do, too. She’s a Papillon, Mum. It’s the French word for butterfly. She’s …”

  “This bird dog is no concern of ours,” she broke in. “You know full well …”

  “She’s going to be MY dog.” He shot the words at her like bullets. “We are going to adopt her. If you don’t let me, I will never forgive you.”

  Her mouth dropped open and the steel went out of her backbone.

  “Birdie,” she moaned, reaching out to him and letting tears rain down her face. “Please, stop speaking in that hard, cruel way. You look just like your father. You mustn’t do this to me.”

  “I must,” he told her. “For Birdie I can do even more. And why shouldn’t I look like Dad? Most boys look like their dads.”

  “But, sweetheart, he left us …”

  “This isn’t about Dad!” Dickon said desperately. “You have to meet Birdie. You have to come over there with me now, before somebody else takes her.”

  “You’re forgetting how afraid I am.”

  He just looked at her and she faltered. Then she changed tack.

  “You might be allergic …”

  He dashed past her into the kitchen and snatched up the teddy bear cup. She followed.

  “You know I’m not. And you know I’m too old for teddy bear cups too.” He dropped it into the garbage bin.

  “Oh, don’t,” she sniffled.

  “Blow your nose, Mum,” said her son. He stood still, studying her, and then he astonished her and himself by leaning forward and kissing her wet cheek. He must have grown a lot since school let out. He hardly h
ad to stretch up at all.

  “Come on. Come with me to meet Birdie.”

  He turned his back and marched out the door. After a moment, to his amazed delight, he heard his mother stumbling after him.

  Homecoming

  The kids and Sally Croft had gone, but the door swung open under Dickon’s eager hand.

  “Birdie, wait …” his mother called, her voice breathless. He pretended not to hear. Leslie glanced up from cleaning up cookie crumbs and spills of juice. Her eyes widened at Dickon and then widened even more as his mother came in.

  “Dickon, did you forget something?” she said.

  “This is my mother,” he burst out, ignoring the question. “My real name is Dickon Fielding. Jody got it wrong by mistake and I never told her. Mum’s name is Julie Fielding. We’ve come to see Birdie.”

  “You mean …”

  “I want Mum to meet her. She has to understand why we have to take her home.”

  He thought it best to hide his doubts. Leslie hesitated, staring at his mother as though she did not believe such a woebegone-looking woman would be a good person to adopt a dog. She hesitated.

  “Please, Leslie,” Dickon begged. “Let me show her.”

  “All right, Dickon,” she said then. “This way, Mrs. Fielding.”

  She led them back to the room where the dogs were kept. Julie Fielding got as far as the door and froze. But her son did not see her. He un-latched Birdie’s cage and the little dog came to him, putting her tiny paws up around his neck. He scooped her into his arms and held her close.

  “Isn’t she beautiful, Mum?” he said, stroking the small dog lovingly. “Isn’t she perfect?”

  Julie Fielding was amazed at how small and dainty Dickon’s dog was. Her ears seemed to be sending signals to her boy’s mother. Little flips of greeting that almost made Julie smile in spite of herself.

  “I thought she was a stray,” she said. “She looks like a rare breed.”

  “She is,” Leslie Hawkin said. “Papillons are getting better known, though. They go way back in history. Marie Antoinette had one.”

  Something in Julie Fielding’s expression made hope stir in Dickon’s heart. The decision wasn’t made yet, though. Leslie had questions to ask. So did Dickon’s mother.

  “Is the dog housebroken?”

  “Yes,” Leslie said firmly. “Birdie is beautifully behaved or she will be when she settles. Often dogs make mistakes just at first in a new home because they don’t know what is expected of them. They get tense. When she first arrived, she leaked when anyone looked at her, but she’s so much happier now. Dickon has convinced her that the world is a friendly place.”

  She smiled at Dickon. He tried to smile back, but his lips felt wooden. He was too nervous to pretend to be calm. His eyes darted from one face to the other and back again. Who was this Marie?

  “Birdie was badly abused by her previous owners,” Leslie added. “At first, she was frightened of everyone. But your son has worked wonders with her. You should be proud of him.”

  Even though she was saying good things, Dickon wished she wouldn’t keep on and on. He almost interrupted to tell them to hurry up. Then he saw how much calmer his mother was growing as she listened to the story of how he and Birdie had come together. He clamped his lips shut. As the minutes crawled past, the set look left her face.

  He wanted to hug her. The next instant, he wanted to clap his hand over her mouth.

  “My Dickon is a special needs child,” she blurted out. He braced himself.

  His mother went on, “He takes medication daily and that helps, but he has trouble concentrating …”

  “ADHD? My brother Jeremy has the same trouble,” Leslie said matter-of-factly, startling them both. “Dickon put me in mind of Jeremy from the start. He’s going to a community college now, with special help, of course. Your son did seem pretty wild and woolly at first, but working with Birdie made a huge difference in him. He had to stay focussed, you see, and he knew he must not frighten her. After all, she’s a special needs dog.”

  Dickon longed to race around the room in dizzy circles, but with an enormous effort he stayed still and tried to look modest. Leslie chuckled. Even his mother smiled.

  Silence fell, a silence filled with waiting. Dickon thought he would burst before his mother spoke at last.

  “Well, maybe we could take her over the weekend as a trial,” Julie Fielding said faintly. She sounded scared and Dickon knew he should comfort her. Instead he leaped into the air and gave a whoop of delight. The little dog clutched to his chest began to tremble violently. He pulled himself together fast before Mum changed her mind.

  When they left the Humane Society, he led Birdie on a leash and Julie Fielding carried her papers and enough food to keep her supplied for a couple of days. Neither spoke during the short walk. They reached the small, crowded house.

  Mrs. Nelson was just turning away from their front door.

  “My heavens!” she gasped. “What have you two been up to while my back was turned?”

  “We are the Fielding family, now complete with dog,” Dickon’s mother said, a little stiffly. “She is called Birdie, as I suspect you know.”

  “Two birdies in one house,” Amy Nelson said, grinning.

  Then, she hugged her neighbor, dog food and all.

  “You’re a brick after all, Julie Fielding,” she said.

  “I’m a lunatic,” said Dickon’s mother weakly. “We’re only trying this out over the weekend. No decisions have been made. Oh, the macaroni must be dried out.”

  “I went in with my key and rescued it,” Amy Nelson said, blushing faintly.

  “You were going to march in and give me a piece of your mind,” Julie Fielding said. “But my son saved you the trouble.”

  She hadn’t called him Birdie. He opened his mouth to say something and then shut it. He had his dog. He could afford to give her time.

  A Real Dog

  Dickon was so happy that once he had Birdie safely inside his own house he shot around the small rooms like a Catherine wheel. He yelped out cheers and fell to his knees to hug his new dog.

  “Birdie,” his mother gasped. “What if you scare her? She may go for you. Do take care.”

  Dickon laughed and twirled around on his bottom for good measure.

  “You won’t go for me, Birdie, will you?” he sang out, grinning down at his new pet, his first pet, his one and only dog. “Her jaws are too delicate to take a chunk out of anybody. Besides, she’s a lady.”

  He was right. She did not go for him. In her fear, she squatted and let go a puddle of pee on the kitchen floor. Then her tail went between her legs and she whimpered, waiting to be punished. In one shamed second she seemed to forget all the weeks of loving and brushing and training. All she remembered was the man who had struck her and shouted at her.

  “Oh, Birdie! Poor Birdie,” Dickon cried, stricken. “I’m sorry, girl. You didn’t mean to do it. Mum, look at her trembling.”

  His mother could not help but see. She saw the puddle, the frightened small dog and her son who was no longer all hers. Well, now he must see that she had been quite right about dogs dirtying up the place. He MUST see.

  If Dickon saw Birdie’s disgraceful puddle, he clearly was not planning to clean it up at once. He sat next to his dog and pulled her onto his lap, crooning comforting things.

  His nervous mother watched him with a look as loving as his for Birdie. Never before had she seen him so tender with anyone except herself. Never before had she seen him so grown-up. So normal.

  She felt confused, her emotions flip-flopping back and forth between delight and resentment. What was happening to her baby bird?

  Whatever it was, the puddle still waited. She sighed a little more loudly than she needed to and started to go for a cloth.

  “I’ll do it,” Dickon said, leaping up so fast that Birdie tumbled off his knees onto the hard floor. The little dog gave a startled yip, but the boy’s attention stayed on the task. He g
rabbed the cloth and mopped up the floor. Then he stared at the cloth. His nose wrinkled up.

  “What’ll I do with it? Where should I throw it out?”

  His mother looked at his disgusted expression and laughed.

  “Rinse it out in the toilet and hang it out on the line for next time,” she said. “We don’t have dozens of floor cloths.”

  “In the … toilet?”

  “That’s right. Where do you think mothers rinse out diapers?”

  “They don’t,” Dickon said firmly. “They use disposables. I’ve seen them on TV.”

  “Well, if you think this dog you prize so highly will wear a disposable diaper …” she said, grinning in spite of herself.

  “Okay, okay.” He cut her off and vanished into the bathroom.

  Birdie whimpered and then, bravely, stood up and went after him, making a big detour to get past Julie.

  Boy and dog returned.

  “Did you see that? She followed me,” Dickon boasted.

  “I saw. You go fix up a bed for her. She’d better sleep in the kitchen.”

  “She can sleep in my room.”

  “No, she cannot. It isn’t healthy. She’ll be fine in the kitchen. And if you want her to stay, shouldn’t you take off her leash?”

  “Sorry, girl,” Dickon murmured and undid the clip.

  Julie Fielding held her breath, ready for Birdie to fly away or leap at his throat. But the little dog stayed close to Dickon, sniffing at his laces.

  He found an old clothes basket, put a thick towel into it and patted it down.

  “Jump in, Birdie,” he said. “Come on, my sweet Birdie.”

  She sniffed the outside of the basket and then leaped in, turned around twice and lay down.

  “Brilliant Birdie. See how she likes it,” he began.

  Before the words were out of his mouth, his dog had tipped the basket over, scrambling out, and set off to explore the rest of the small kitchen.

  Julie soon realized that the kitchen was not going to work. Birdie made her too nervous underfoot like that. And the basket took up too much space. The bathroom was even smaller.

  “You win,” she told her son. “Move her bed into your room. But remember, you sleep in your bed and she sleeps in hers.”