Mad Dog

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  All eyes zero in on Dakota, who hasn’t said two words during the meal. Neither have I, although I don’t think anybody noticed. Kat didn’t come down for dinner, so it’s pretty much been a Coolidge conversation so far.

  “Dakota,” Popeye says, “tell my Annie about the doc’s visit.”

  Dakota twists the napkin in her lap. I don’t think she’s eaten anything. “The vet didn’t really do much. Blackfire’s got an abscess in his hoof, and Doc Jim couldn’t get it out. He couldn’t even get it to drain. He just kept cutting and cutting, but it didn’t do any good.” She stops and swallows, but I’m pretty sure she’s swallowing tears and not casserole.

  Hank jumps to the vet’s defense. “Doc Jim did everything he could. He cut into the hoof until he couldn’t go deeper. He thinks soaking Blackfire’s hoof will make the abscess drain. And the penicillin should keep the infection down.”

  “That makes sense,” Popeye says. Then, just like he’s talking to one of us, he prays, eyes open, no change in his voice. “Father, we ask You to take care of Blackfire for us. Help Dakota know what to do. Comfort both of them. Thanks for that horse and the way he’s been coming around. Pass the biscuits, please.”

  The last part he aims at me. I pass the biscuits.

  Annie and Popeye keep the conversation going. But I concentrate on getting dinner down so I can walk the dogs before it gets too dark.

  “Wes,” Annie says, scooping up another helping of casserole, “I stopped at Nice Manor today, and George was there. She said the residents can’t wait to see the dogs you’ve got for them.”

  I’ve never heard anybody except Annie call Georgette Coolidge “George.”

  “I’ve got a lot of training to do with the dogs before they’re ready for the nursing home,” I say, finishing off my last green bean. It’s not going to be easy to teach that bulldog not to jump up on people.

  “Assisted living,” Annie corrects. “Better not let the residents hear you calling Nice Manor a nursing home. There’s a big difference. Nobody will be bedridden or needing constant nursing care. Then again, George was saying that if this pet program works for the hardier residents, she thinks it will work at Nice Nursing Home. Those people would love having animals around.”

  Annie takes a bite, chews, and dabs her lips with her napkin. “I do hope someone will like the dog with three legs.” Before dinner Annie gave each dog a checkup, and I knew she took to the Pom. “All four dogs are really quite fit, considering where they come from. They could stand to put on weight, except for that peculiar-looking dog that kept jumping on me.”

  “I’ll fatten ’em up in no time,” I promise.

  Above us, the Pomeranian’s toenails click-click as he walk-hops, pacing my bedroom floor.

  “Can I go walk the dogs now?” I ask, getting up from the table.

  “I suppose,” Annie says.

  “Wait!” Dakota tosses her napkin on her plate, covering her uneaten food. “What about dishes? It’s Wes’s turn to wash.”

  “It’s going to be dark if I wait any longer,” I explain.

  Beside me, Rex, who’s been lying at my feet, sits up.

  “You should have thought of that before dinner,” Dakota says.

  “Thought of what?” I snap. “When they gotta go, they gotta go. Nothing to think about. Since nobody’s going to help me walk the dogs, what am I supposed to do?”

  “The dishes.” Dakota leans back in her chair and folds her arms in front of her. “I’m sure not doing them.”

  “Because you have so much to do?” I shove my chair in, but it slides too hard and slams the table. Rex starts barking.

  “I’m e-mailing Winnie to ask her how to soak Blackfire’s hoof, not that it’s any of your business. And I have to check on my horse. So, yeah. I do have a lot to do.”

  “Yeah. Must be rough taking care of one animal,” I say, pouring on the sarcasm. “One. And you don’t even have to walk him.”

  “Well, you don’t—”

  “That’s enough,” Popeye says.

  Dakota stops, but if looks had volume, hers would be earsplitting.

  “Say, my love,” Annie says, as she stands up and gathers their plates, “how would you like to cuddle with me over a sink of dirty dishes?”

  “There’s no place I’d rather be,” Popeye answers.

  “Fine,” Dakota mumbles. “Do Wes’s job for him.” She gets up, drops her dishes into the sink, and heads outside.

  I start with the littlest dog first. After 20 minutes with the Pom, I’ve learned two facts about him: (1) He can get around better on three legs than some dogs do on four. And (2) he takes his sweet time doing his business.

  The terrier isn’t much better. Every little sound throws her off. Just when I think she’s finally going to do what we’re out here for, she hears Dakota slamming things in the barn or Annie and Popeye laughing from the kitchen or a cricket chirping. And it’s a no go.

  By the time I get done with all the dogs, it’s dark. Popeye, Annie, Hank, and Dakota are stretched out on the grass for a moon check. Almost every night, unless it’s raining, we check out the night sky. I thought it was pretty lame at first, but it’s okay. Popeye knows the names of the stars, and he can point out a million constellations.

  “Hurry, Wes!” Popeye hollers. “You don’t want to miss the show tonight.”

  “Be out in a minute,” I answer.

  I kennel the Blab and the bulldog but leave the kennel doors open. Then I dash upstairs to check on the Pom and the terrier. I find them curled up together in the dog bed.

  I ease the door shut so I don’t disturb them. Then I head back toward the stairway.

  Dakota’s bedroom door is open, and the light’s on. Annie hates it when we leave the lights on. Besides, Dakota’s room faces the front of the house. Even the little bit of light from her window can cut down on our sky view.

  I step into her room and start to turn off her light when I see something that gets my attention. My name. There’s a piece of paper on Dakota’s dresser, and my name is on it. From where I’m standing, still in the doorway, it looks like some kind of list.

  Dakota is famous for her lists. Sometimes she writes down “to do” lists or “to get” lists. Mostly, she lists things in her journal. But this one’s lying out in plain sight. And that’s my name I’m looking at.

  It’s not like this is her private journal. I’d never touch one of her real journals. This is definitely different. This list is out in the open for anybody to read. I mean, her door was open. The light was on. Plus, Wes is on that list.

  In two strides, I’m at Dakota’s dresser. I don’t touch her list, but I read:

  Top 10 Tips for Taking Care of Blackfire

  1. Use an old feed bucket for the water.

  2. Make the water warm, not too cold or too hot.

  3. Play music while you soak the hoof.

  4. Scratch his withers during the process.

  5. Start and finish with a handful of oats.

  6. Don’t soak the hoof the same time he gets his shot.

  7. Keep the stall clean and dry.

  8. Hang out with him after the soaking.

  9. Pray.

  10. WES—Keep him as far away from my horse, and me, as possible.

  Real nice. I turn off the light and go downstairs.

  Seven

  “Wes, come take a look at this,” Hank calls. He scoots over, making room for me between him and Annie.

  This is where Kat usually sits, and I don’t like taking her spot. I want to know what’s wrong with her this time, why she’s sleeping so much. But I don’t ask. Maybe I don’t really want to know.

  Finally, I plop onto her spot because it’s better than where I usually sit, on the end next to Dakota. The air is still sticky hot, but it’s the coolest it’s been all week. I hope it cools down before my mom gets out of rehab. She hates the heat.

  Dakota is talking to Popeye. “Winnie e-mailed me some tips on how to pull off soaking Blackf
ire’s hoof. I plan to use that old feed bucket from the tack room. Winnie says music should help keep Blackfire calm, so I’m borrowing Kat’s iPod docking station to play music out in the barn.”

  She keeps babbling, and I recognize other tips that were on that list in her room. I should have known she got them from Winnie the Horse Gentler. All except the last item on her list, the one about me. Thinking about it makes my stomach ball up into a fist.

  Rex trots up and sits next to me. His ears are back. I don’t want him to bark and give away how angry I am at Dakota. I lean back and stare through tree branches at a sky full of stars. Rex lies down too. It’s an average sky night. The moon is three-quarters, so its light wipes out the Milky Way. On some winter nights, the sky looks like a black sheet full of pinpricks, with light leaking through from the other side.

  “Are you looking?” Hank asks me.

  “I’m looking,” I tell him.

  “Sirius,” Hank says.

  “I’m serious,” I promise.

  Dakota laughs.

  Annie speaks up. “The name of that bright star is Sirius. S-i-r-i-u-s.”

  Dakota snorts out another dry laugh.

  “Sirius is the brightest star in the northern hemisphere tonight. We’ll be able to see it better in January though,” Hank explains.

  Right. Like I’ll still be here in January. “And I care about this star because . . . ?”

  Rex’s tail slams the grass, back and forth. He barks twice. I stroke him, and he stops.

  Hank sits up and frowns at me. “Because another name for Sirius is ‘the Dog Star.’ It’s part of Canis Major. The Big Dog. Dad can make out the whole constellation, but I can just figure out pieces of it. Until December or January anyway.”

  I kinda like that there’s a dog star. I squint up at the sky, but I can’t see anything that looks like a dog.

  Popeye moves over by me and puts his head next to mine so we’re looking at the same thing. “There.” He points at the brightest star in the sky. “That’s the Dog Star. Now, those two stars above it are the shoulder and the eye of the Big Dog constellation.” His chubby finger traces the air, like he’s drawing on the sky. “Over there’s the nose. Below, you can make out two front paws. Then go back there, and that’s a hind leg, and two stars for the tail. Pretty soon we’ll get the Little Dog, too.”

  I really do try to see what Popeye sees. I make out some of the stars he’s pointing to, but that’s it. “Popeye, you know I can’t fill in the blanks on this sky stuff.”

  “Use your imagination!” Annie cries. Her voice makes the command sound like song lyrics. “I think the Big Dog resembles that skinny beagle you brought home from the shelter.”

  I gaze at the stars and try again, but it’s a no go. No beagles in my sky. I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  “Try again, Wes,” Hank urges, getting a little too big brotherly. “You know how people talk about the dog days of summer? The Egyptians used to blame the Dog Star for the extra heat in summer. They figured it had to come from the brightest star in the sky, the Dog Star.”

  “Give it up,” Dakota advises. “Wes doesn’t care about any of that. He just cares about his own little world.”

  I’ve about had it with her. “Like you don’t?”

  “I’m thinking about my horse. Not myself,” she says.

  “Right. The big soaking plan. If you ask me, it’s all one big excuse to hang out in the barn all day. Or e-mail Winnie the Great Horse Gentler.”

  “Winnie’s helping me take care of Blackfire!” Dakota shouts.

  “That’s right.” My sarcasm is picking up steam now. “I’ll bet Winnie helped with your mighty list. Was it her idea to keep Wes as far away as possible?”

  Dakota springs to her feet. “You read my journal!”

  “Did not!” I get to my feet too. I didn’t touch her stupid journal.

  “You did so!” she screams. “You were in my room!”

  “You left the light on, like always!” I shout back.

  “So I left the light on. So what? You’re not my mother.”

  “Who’d want that job?”

  We charge at each other until we’re nose to nose.

  “Get out of my face, Dakota!” I warn.

  “Make me!” she shouts back.

  “That’ll be enough.” Popeye wedges his round body between us. “No more. You two have been at each other all day. This ends here.”

  “But he—”

  “She’s been—”

  “No more.” Popeye says it quietly. Calmly. But his words have force. “I’ve come up with a punishment and a solution.” He grins at Annie, who smiles back.

  This can’t be good.

  Popeye turns to Dakota. “Dakota, Wes needs your help with these dogs. You’re going to help him.”

  Dakota explodes. “That’s not fair! I have Blackfire to take care of.”

  “Very true,” Popeye answers softly. He turns to me. “Which is why Wes here will be happy to help you with your horse.”

  Eight

  Friday morning I wake up before the sun, thanks to the Pom licking my face.

  “Take it easy, man,” I say, lifting him off my chest. “Leave some skin, will you?” Then it hits me. “Hey, how did you get up here?”

  The Pom strains to get at my face again with his long tongue. I can’t figure how he did it, but he must have jumped up on my bed during the night.

  Rex is lying beside my bed, like he has every night since I found him. I reach down and stroke his head. His tail goes thwack, thwack against the floor.

  I drag myself out of bed and set the Pom next to Rex. “Where’s your buddy?”

  It takes some searching, but I find the terrier cowering under my bed. “Come on out, girl,” I beg. “Aren’t you hungry? Want to go for a walk?”

  That gets through to her. She crawls out and huddles beside the Pomeranian. I tuck one dog under each arm like footballs and head out with Rex tagging behind.

  As soon as I open my bedroom door, I hear the two kenneled dogs barking on the front porch. They’re ready too. No way I can take all five dogs at the same time.

  Kat, still in her nightgown, sticks her head out of her bedroom. She hasn’t put on a wig, so the tiny, white fuzz on her bald head catches the light from the hall. “Wes?” She rubs her eyes and yawns. “Everything okay?”

  “It’s cool, Kat,” I tell her. “Under control. Just walking the dogs.”

  She looks like she should still be in bed. Sometimes I get scared that she’ll fall down and break into pieces. But that’s just the outside. Inside, that kid is 10 times stronger than any of us. When the social worker first dropped me off at Starlight, I was fighting mad at the whole world. I wouldn’t talk to anybody—not Ms. Bean (the social worker), not any of the Coolidges, and not the little white girl who trailed me everywhere I went. But Kat kept following me anyway, telling me about all the kittens she was taking care of, filling me in on Hank and Annie and Popeye. She talked about God, too, although I don’t remember what she said. Just that she talked about God different than most other people do. Like He’s not as far away as you think. I lived on the farm two whole weeks before I knew Kat was sick.

  “Need any help?” she asks, yawning again.

  “Nah. I got it.” I set the terrier down and snap on her leash. “You go back to bed.”

  Kat grins and slips into her room. I’d probably never say it out loud, but I’m going to miss that kid when I move back in with my mom.

  The terrier won’t go down the stairs on her leash, and I don’t think the three-legged Pomeranian can handle the steep steps. So I end up carrying both dogs downstairs.

  Dr. Annie is sipping a cup of tea at the table. Next to her, Popeye, chin in hands, stares at his wife like he’s memorizing her face.

  “Morning, Wes. Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Annie says.

  “You think?” I return.

  Popeye grins at me, and I know what’s coming. A joke. Bad, as onl
y he can tell it. “Say, Wes, what happened to the dog that ate too much garlic?”

  I learned a long time ago that the best way to get through Popeye’s jokes is fast. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Don’t know,” I say, like I need to know this answer.

  “What happened to the dog that ate too much garlic?” Popeye always repeats his joke before answering it himself. “His bark really was worse than his . . . bite!” He breaks out laughing before he gets the last word out.

  “Good one,” I say, without enthusiasm.

  Annie elbows him. “One more, sweetheart. Please?”

  I give her the evil eye, but she’s not looking at me. Her gaze is on Popeye.

  “Well,” he says, “if you insist. What do you get when you cross a dog and a lion?”

  He raises his bushy eyebrows at me, so I have to play along. It’s the only way to get him to quit. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you get when you cross a dog and a lion? A terrified postman.” Popeye and Annie laugh so hard they fall into each other’s arms.

  The two dogs on the porch start barking like crazy again. Rex trots to the door and presses his nose to the screen.

  I stand in the middle of the kitchen, not sure which dog or dogs to walk first.

  “Where’s Dakota?” Annie asks.

  “How should I know?” I answer. “Probably sleeping.”

  “She better get up,” Popeye says, clearing their dishes.

  Annie walks her cup to the sink. She’s wearing khaki pants with an elastic waist. Her pink shirt is stuffed into the waistband. “Want me to wake Dakota for you, Wes?”

  “For me?” I don’t get it. Then I remember. Dakota has to help me with the dogs. “Cool! Do it, Annie.”

  I stay downstairs with the dogs and Popeye, although I’d love to see the scene in Dakota’s room. Turns out I hear parts of it, especially the end.

  “Fine!” Dakota shouts.

  “I thought you’d feel that way,” Annie says sweetly. I hear footsteps on the stairs. Then Annie appears. “Dakota will be right down. As for me, I’ve got to get to the hospital.”