Because of Shoe and Other Dog Stories

by Margarita Engle

  It was all her father’s fault. Why couldn’t he just remember to muzzle Bertha?

  Was it the war? The war in Iraq was the reason for everything else: why he couldn’t sleep or keep a job, why he smoked, why his mind drifted off in the middle of a conversation.

  So maybe it wasn’t his fault. It was the war’s fault. Or the president’s fault. But Bertha could die, no matter whose fault it was.

  Mr. Brennan’s fault. He was the one with the stupid chickens. And the gun.

  She had to help her father remember. When her stomach finally settled, she got up and dug out her felt pens. On two big pieces of paper, in giant red letters, she wrote REMEMBER THE MUZZLE.

  Beneath the words, she drew Bertha with big, sad eyes. The first Bertha looked like a raccoon; the second one was a little better. She taped the signs next to the front and back doors, where her father couldn’t miss seeing them. Before turning in, she set her alarm clock. At five A.M., she would get up, muzzle Bertha, and let her out. That would be her job from now on.

  She would tell her father about the new plan, but he’d probably just forget.

  She awoke to the sound of rain—4:40. She turned off her alarm and yawned. She closed her eyes. In five minutes she would get up and let Bertha out.

  When she awoke again, the rain had stopped—6:10.

  Bertha! She leapt out of bed and raced to the living room.

  There was Bertha, asleep on her blanket. Her father was standing at the window, looking out, steam rising from his World’s Greatest Dad coffee mug. According to him, a day could not begin without coffee.

  “Did you let Bertha out, Daddy?”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Bertha. Does she need to go out?”

  Her father turned and smiled, as if he’d just woken up. “Good morning, cookie. You’re up early.”

  Emmy joined him at the window. “It’s stopped raining. Good.”

  “That’s the end of the skating for this year,” he said. He put his arm around Emmy, giving her a sideways squeeze.

  Her heart tumbled downhill. One more day on the ice, and she’d have her flip jump. She just knew it.

  They ate their Cheerios together. Then her father went out to his garage workshop, and she went outside. It was cold. Cold enough.

  Well, maybe not cold enough. But cold. The sky was a frozen gray. Her breath came out white. A little voice inside told her that this would be her last chance, that she had to hurry.

  She went back inside, dressed, and gathered up her skates. It was Sunday, and her mother was sleeping in.

  Bertha was sleeping in, too. Was she sick? Emmy felt her nose. Bertha opened one eye, banged her tail against the wall, and went back to sleep. Emmy crept out the door.

  The sun was just coming up, a soft orange smudge behind the leafless trees. Emmy hurried up the wet road. The sooner she got to the pond, the better. The air would warm up as the day went on, and the ice would begin to melt.

  But for now, there was time. There had to be. Just one quick flip. One perfect, even not-so-perfect flip.

  * * *

  Rainwater glazed the pond. It had never looked so beautiful or so still, and Emmy had it all to herself. Stepping out onto the ice, she was Emily Hughes at Nationals, ready for her free skate. She glided off. Not a sound but the scritch and scratch of her blades. She would skate to the other side of the pond and back. By then, she would be warmed up. By then, Bobby might be coming down the hill and she would do her first ever flip jump.

  On the pond’s far end, water was seeping up through the ice. Water?

  Emmy stopped. Her breath came short. She turned and began skating back fast to where the ice was safe.

  She felt it before she knew exactly what was happening, a sickening lurch in the pit of her stomach as the ice cracked and began to give. Then, ever so slowly, as if it had all the time in the world, the black water rose up through the sinking floor and took her down.

  Under the freezing, dark water Emmy thrashed in all directions, through her own bubbles, not knowing which way was up and out. Branches underwater, like withered arms, snagged her sleeve. But then her skates touched on something, just the tips of their blades, and she gave one huge push upward.

  She broke through the surface, gasping, screaming. “Help! Help, somebody!”

  Her jaw ached, her teeth began to chatter like a windup toy. She clung to a shelf of ice, afraid to look down. All that black water. Every prayer she ever knew rose to her lips.

  If she weren’t so cold, she could believe she was dreaming. She could wake herself out of this.

  How had she let herself believe that a flip jump was worth more than her life?

  “Help! Somebody, help!”

  From the other side of the pond came a familiar bark, and Bertha came racing across the ice, a brown blur, slipping and sliding, falling and getting back up, heading straight for Emmy.

  “No, Bertha! Go back! You’ll fall through!” But Bertha was determined. As the ice cracked around them, Bertha tugged on Emmy’s sleeve with all thirty pounds of her might. She couldn’t budge Emmy, who had begun to wail.

  “Get help, Bertha,” she begged. Bertha whined and pulled.

  Someone was coming down the hill, a moving black shadow.

  “Help!” cried Emmy through frozen lips. Her voice cracked. She was turning to ice. “Help me!”

  Old Man Brennan stopped perfectly still at the edge of the pond, a black cutout silhouette stuck onto white paper. He looked down then, as if he’d lost something. Then he turned and went back up the way he had come. Bertha took off after him. Catching up, she ran circles around his legs, barking and barking.

  Emmy tried again to hoist herself out, but the ice broke under her weight. She thrashed in the water until she could grab on again.

  Was this the way it happened? Was this the way she would die? Would Old Man Brennan let her freeze to death because of a couple of chickens?

  Then she saw him coming back, trudging down the hill with his shotgun. Where was Bertha? Had he shot her? Was he going to shoot Emmy, too?

  Was he crazy?

  But there was Bertha, racing down the hill, past Old Man Brennan and onto the ice. She grabbed onto Emmy’s sleeve again and, lowering her haunches, began to pull.

  Old Man Brennan made his way toward them, slowly, carefully, testing each step, his face hidden in the collar of his jacket. A loose snap on his huge black boots rattled.

  Kneeling, he began crawling on his hands and knees across the ice. He pushed the big barrel of the gun toward her. His eyes, shadowed under the brim of his hat, looked almost afraid. When the pipe—not a shotgun!—reached her, Emmy grabbed on like a fish biting bait.

  Slowly, carefully, Old Man Brennan pulled Emmy out and over the ice. Then she was sitting on her bottom, curled up with her arms around her soaked tights and wailing like a wet baby while Bertha licked her face.

  “Careful, now,” said Old Man Brennan, helping Emmy to her feet. With his hands on her shoulders, he guided her back over the ice.

  When Bertha saw that Emmy was safe, she took off, skidding and slipping across the ice and into the woods.

  Old Man Brennan wrapped his jacket around Emmy and lifted her into his arms. “We’ve got to get you home,” he said.

  “Bertha’s gone after your chickens,” Emmy mumbled through Popsicle lips.

  It was only fair to tell him.

  “You almost lost your life, young lady,” he said.

  * * *

  By the end of February, the ice was melting fast, and by March, it was gone. Emmy went to the pond to sit and think, no matter the season. She turned twelve in March, and there was so much to think about when you were twelve. She had grown almost an inch. There was hope. Sometimes she was by herself, and sometimes Bobby came down the hill and sat beside her on the log. They talked about school, their teachers, friends and family, the usual things.

  They both missed skating and talked about his dreams of being on the Rangers and her
s of being in the Olympics. Emmy hadn’t done a flip jump after all, but she wasn’t giving up hope. Some things took time, and flips were one of those things.

  “How come your grandfather doesn’t come down to the pond anymore?” said Emmy on one long and lazy afternoon, happy that she and Bobby had the pond to themselves.

  “No ice,” said Bobby. When he looked over at her, Emmy saw a change in him. It was as if he’d thought of something he didn’t like to remember. “When he was twelve, his little sister fell through the ice and drowned.”

  A chill ran through Emmy. “She drowned right here? In this pond?”

  “Right here,” he said. They both looked out at the greenish-black water as if they could see it happening. “My grandpa tried to pull her out, but he couldn’t.”

  “So he watches you?”

  “Sometimes he watches even when I’m not there. He’s like the god of the pond.”

  Bertha lay with her muzzled snout on the log, right between them, as if she’d been sent by Emmy’s mother to keep them apart.

  “Your grandpa thinks I’m an idiot, right?”

  “He says you’re too brave for your own good. But I can tell that he likes you.” Bobby patted Bertha, who was clearly in love with him. “At least Bertha hasn’t killed any more chickens.”

  At the mention of her name, Bertha’s tail thumped the ground.

  “I put a sign on my dad’s Mr. Coffee machine,” said Emmy. “Now he never forgets.”

  By the middle of May, Brennan’s Pond was warm enough to wade in, but the bottom was thick with mud that sucked you down, and nobody ever swam in it. There were cattails all along one side, leaves on the trees, birds that settled in the branches at dusk and gossiped about their day, frogs that blinked their big wise eyes. By August, Bobby and Emmy were holding hands, unless Bertha was there to nudge them apart.

  Bertha kept catching chickens, but only in her dreams. Emmy could tell by her scrambling feet and the smile on her face as she slept.

  On December 21, the official start of winter, Emmy did a full, only-a-little-crooked, almost-perfect flip jump, and Bertha and Bobby and the whole hockey crew were there to see it happen.

  Trail Magic

  by Margarita Engle

  illustrated by Olga and Aleksey Ivanov

  Gabe

  In my other life there were pit bulls.

  The puppies weren’t born vicious,

  but Mom taught them how to bite,

  turning meanness into money,

  until she got caught.

  Now I live in a high mountain cabin

  with my brave forest ranger uncle,

  and I only see Mom on visiting days,

  when the heavy gate of a lowland prison

  slides shut behind me, making me feel small

  and trapped.

  I’m not small—I’m almost twelve, the tallest boy

  in my tiny, three-room mountain school.

  Living in the forest feels like time travel.

  Tío reminds me of heroes in ancient stories,

  fearless people who knew how to fly,

  talk to animals, and face any danger

  without sinking into the huge

  loneliness

  of nightmares.

  Tío takes me bird-watching and stargazing

  in places without any traffic or lights.

  He shows me how to survive lightning storms

  and where to find roots and berries.

  He patrols the Pacific Crest Trail,

  where hikers from all over the world

  walk thousands of miles, just to find

  peace and quiet, luxuries I never imagined

  in my old life of rage and pain.

  Peace and quiet feel like a mysterious

  sort of medicine.

  Tío promises that someday I’ll feel brave,

  but I swear it isn’t true.

  I’m a coward.

  I’m even scared of falling asleep.

  I’m scared of dreams.

  When my uncle is out making his rounds,

  I’m alone in the cabin with his friendly

  search-and-rescue dog, a shelter mutt

  with the glow of a golden retriever,

  the genius of a border collie,

  and the name of a boy: Gabe.

  Tío thinks dogs deserve human names

  to remind us that they’re alive,

  with real feelings, like joy and pain.

  Tío and Gabe and I are a team.

  We serve hamburgers and wild berry pies

  to backpackers who visit our cabin.

  The hikers come from places like Iceland, Japan,

  and Australia, talking with exotic accents

  as they tell stories about other mountains

  they’ve hiked—the Andes, the Alps, the Himalayas.

  Listening to their adventures,

  I imagine the size of the world.

  No wonder I feel small.

  Backpackers headed all the way from Canada

  to Mexico are called thru-hikers.

  They leave their everyday lives behind,

  choosing trail names like Wolf, Wild Man,

  Explorer, or Skywalker.

  I imagine those trail names must help

  the hikers feel free and heroic,

  but when they ask me what trail name

  I’d choose if I was old enough to walk

  all over the world, I can’t even begin

  to imagine being that brave.

  Strangely, I’m not afraid of dogs.

  You’d think I would be, after all the fights

  I’ve seen, all the growling I’ve heard.

  Thru-hikers call my uncle a trail angel,

  meaning a stranger who spreads trail magic,

  which is any unexpected act of kindness,

  like sharing food or finding the lost.

  The Pacific Crest Trail passes through places

  with names like Desolation, where exhausted hikers

  sometimes lose their way.

  That’s when Gabe’s amazing nose

  goes into action, sniffing like crazy,

  twitching so hard I can hear the air popping

  in and out of his nostrils.

  Dogs think work and fun

  are exactly the same thing.

  Gabe gets bouncy and excited,

  but he’s serious too, as if he understands

  that search and rescue is a life-or-death game

  of hide-and-seek.

  Life-or-death games are all I knew

  back in my old life, when I had to take care

  of dogs that could have killed me.

  Mountain chores are safe and easy.

  All I have to do is weed the vegetable garden,

  stack firewood, chop fruit for pies, and hide

  way out in the forest, so Gabe can practice

  finding a lost person.

  When a wilderness area dog like Gabe is searching,

  he runs back and forth in a big zigzag pattern,

  sniffing the air until he finds my scent.

  Then he turns and races back to alert Tío,

  who praises him and tosses a squeaky toy.

  Gabe’s reward for winning at hide-and-seek

  is playing fetch, only he can’t work alone.

  He needs guidance.

  Without Tío’s instructions,

  Gabe would be as mixed up and confused

  as a boy raised by pit bulls.

  On the other hand, once Gabe understands

  what he’s supposed to do,

  he moves like a shooting star,

  a fiery streak of pure energy!

  Once the life-or-death game

  of hide-and-seek is finally over,

  it’s time to rest.

  At night in the cabin, Gabe curls up

  beside me, and I listen to his breath.

  The unworried rhythm is like music,

  helping me r
elax and forget to be scared

  of memory-dreams that make the past

  still seem real.

  When Gabe dreams, his eyelids flicker,

  and I imagine that I can see his thoughts.

  Before the shelter, he must have been lonely,

  just a puppy lost on a mountain road,

  hoping to be found and rescued.

  Now he finds and rescues lost people.

  Some things in life actually do make sense.

  So why can’t I ever imagine my mom’s thoughts?

  The dogfights were ugly and noisy.

  I didn’t know how to make the meanness stop.

  Drunk men came to bet money—scary men,

  betting on scary dogs, but the next morning,

  I had to feed those dogs and patch their wounds.

  I took them for long, tail-wagging walks,

  just like any other boy who had never

  heard snarls or touched scars.

  Gabe wakes me up out of the memories.

  We stop dreaming, we get up, move around,

  set ourselves free of the past.

  The weather is clear and warm.

  The forest is alive with clean smells,

  pine, incense cedar, and wildness.

  It’s Saturday, no school, and Tío is already

  out in the woods, working weekends

  because it’s just past summer, the busy season,

  when even the most remote campgrounds

  are crowded.

  I take Gabe out for a run, feed him,

  and heat up some leftover pie for myself.

  There’s no Internet or cell phone reception

  up here, but I have a two-way radio

  for checking in to let my uncle know I’m fine.

  The problem is, today he’s patrolling

  on such a remote peak that even my radio

  won’t reach him.

  I’m not fine.

  Memory-dreams have a way of leaving

  a bitter aftertaste, like strong medicine.

  To get away from the creeping sadness,

  I take my radio out to the garden,

  where I can pretend Tío is close.

  I pretend the thorny weeds

  are alien invaders and I’m a superhero,

  chasing them back to their own planet.

  Gabe tries to help, but he digs up