“Must you?” Popeye sounds desperate.
“’Fraid so, my love,” Annie says.
We go through this every morning. I think they’ve been married 20 years.
Annie pats her pockets. Then she dashes to the table, then over to the sink and back to the computer. Finally, she reaches into her pocket and comes out with her car keys. “There they are.” She whizzes past me, with Popeye on her heels. “Bye-bye.”
“Bye,” I call after her.
She gets as far as the screen door, then turns and races back to the kitchen. “Has anybody seen my purse?”
Popeye retrieves the giant black bag. “Here you are, my Annie.” He kisses her hand and walks her out to the minivan.
Through the screen I watch as Popeye opens the car door for Annie. When she drives off, he waves and keeps waving, even after the van’s out of view and the dust has settled.
It’s pretty wack. But I admit I wouldn’t mind someone caring about my mom like that.
The Pom squirms to get down and out of my arms. Rex nudges the screen, wanting out. The kenneled dogs are barking, demanding their freedom.
I holler toward the stairs, “Dakota, hurry up!”
These dogs aren’t going to wait much longer. I find the leashes and head for the porch. The sun is rising. If I wasn’t so sleepy, it would be pretty cool out here. A red streak swirls below a bank of clouds. In Chicago, it was hard to see over the projects to the sky. Or maybe I wasn’t looking.
Finally, Dakota stumbles out to the porch. I’m guessing she slept in the shorts and T-shirt she’s wearing. Her hair is smushed on one side and frizzy on the other.
“Nice outfit,” I say. “Great hair.”
“Shut up and give me a dog,” Dakota replies.
I take Rex and the Pom for the first round of walks. The two dogs hit it off. Rex lags back for the Pom, and the three-legged guy shows a lot of spunk trying to keep up. I let them both off the leash on the way back to the house.
Dakota starts out with the Blab. He’s a handful. All he wants to do is play. Play with his leash, play with Dakota’s untied shoelaces, play with leaves on the ground. But Dakota sticks with it. We don’t say a word to each other. But together we get all five dogs walked and fed before Hank’s finished working his first horse.
“You didn’t do so bad,” I tell her when we finally go back in.
“I like dogs,” she admits. “Not as much as horses, but dogs aren’t bad.”
I hang up the leashes in the porch, where I’ve screwed in hooks.
Dakota walks to the kitchen. When I get there, she’s pulling a note off the fridge. “Popeye says he’s driving Kat to town and won’t be back until suppertime.”
She sets the note on the counter, and I read it for myself. “You think he took her to the hospital?”
“No. He would have said. She’s not due for more chemo for a while either.” Dakota gets out the oatmeal.
I pop two pieces of bread into the toaster and get out the peanut butter.
We’re quiet while each of us fixes our own breakfast.
“Do you think Kat’s getting any better?” Dakota asks. She pulls a stool up to the counter, where I’m already eating my toast.
I shrug. “I don’t know. She’s been sleeping a lot lately.”
“I’ve been praying for her,” she says. “It helps me. I just hope it’s helping Kat.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
“Do you pray, Wes?”
I get up and pour myself a glass of milk. “Sometimes. Kind of.” I down the whole glass standing up, then set the cup in the sink. I don’t want to talk about praying or Kat. I’m too tired to even think about how sick Kat is.
A yawn comes from way inside of me, and I let it out. I didn’t get much sleep last night with three dogs in my room. “Dakota, I’m beat. Thanks for the help. I’m going back to bed. If Hank comes in, tell him to keep it down, okay?”
“No. Not okay.” Dakota walks over to me and gets in my face. “You’re not going anywhere, Wes.”
“Excuse me? Who died and made you boss? I’m going back to bed. Deal with it, Dakota.” I like the sound of that. I picture a bumper sticker with the slogan: Deal with it, Dakota. Man, I really am tired.
I make a move to go around her, but she blocks me.
“Wesley Williams, the only place you’re going is to the barn. You and I have a date with Blackfire.”
Nine
“Have I told you lately how glad I am you’re not my real sister?” I ask Dakota.
“Feeling’s mutual,” Dakota assures me.
This is our fourth trip to the barn. We’ve carried out enough salt and water to start our own ocean.
“Go ahead and dump that small bag of salts into the trough. Then mix it up really well,” she orders. “I’ll go get Blackfire. Better keep your distance when I bring him out.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice. That wild animal looks like he wants to stomp me.”
“He’s a very intelligent horse,” Dakota comments. She jogs off to Blackfire’s stall.
I can’t believe Hank’s not around to help. I shove the black rubber feed bucket, filled with warm water, closer to the pole. I’m pretty sure that’s where Dakota will tie her horse. The trough is about a foot and a half deep. I dump in the salt and slosh it around with a stick until I hear Blackfire and Dakota coming.
Dakota leads Blackfire to the round pen. He’s limping worse than yesterday. “Is everything ready, Wes?” she calls.
“I guess.” I hustle out of the pen, leaving the gate open for her.
When she leads Blackfire in, the horse lays back his ears. Even I know that’s not a great sign. I know what angry looks like.
I station myself a safe distance outside the pen. I wish I had Rex with me, but Dakota made me leave him in the house. She was afraid Rex would pick up on my anger and bark, scaring Blackfire.
First, Dakota brushes her horse, smoothing his coat after each stroke. She starts with the head and works her way back. Then she moves around to the other side and does the whole routine all over again.
I think she’s dragging this out just to drive me crazy. It’s working. “C’mon, Dakota. Blackfire looks clean to me.”
“He is clean.” She drags the brush down each foreleg and up again. “I’m not brushing Blackfire because he’s dirty. Touching him is part of the bonding process.”
“No kidding? That’s what I do with dogs.”
When I found Rex by the side of the road and carried him back to the farm, he was so weak that he couldn’t raise his head. But I could feel him tremble with fear. For the first 48 hours, all I did was pet him. Something about touching him made me feel a part of Rex, and it worked the same way for him. I didn’t even know you called it “bonding” until Hank told me.
Dakota keeps brushing her horse. “Winnie says the more I stroke Blackfire before soaking his hoof, the calmer he’ll be. . . . I almost forgot. Turn on the music.”
She’s already got the iPod and docking station plugged in and ready to go. All I have to do is punch the button. I’m expecting elevator music or something you’d hear at the dentist’s office, but what comes out of the speakers is jazz. Not bad.
“You should e-mail Barker on the Pet Helpline, Wes. Winnie says Eddy Barker knows as much about dogs as she knows about horses or Catman knows about cats. I’ll bet Barker could give you some tips about training dogs for Nice Manor.”
“Rex taught me everything I need to know about dogs.” I wish she’d get off my back. I don’t need help from Barker or anybody.
Dakota sets down the brush. “Okay. Your turn.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Get in here, Wes!” she snaps.
I stay where I’m at. “What? Did you forget your own list? ‘Keep Wes away from Blackfire’?”
“I don’t have time for this, Wes.” Dakota keeps her voice soft, no doubt so she doesn’t scare her horse. But her words are forced throug
h bared teeth. “Look, if you brush him, maybe he’ll let you help me. Get . . . in . . . here.”
I shake my head. “I’m not touching that horse.”
“Fine.” She glares at me. “Don’t touch him. But get close enough so he can get used to you, at least.”
I enter the pen and get close enough to see the whites of his eyes.
“Closer,” Dakota whisper-shouts.
I move closer.
Dakota holds out the brush to me.
“I told you I’m not touching that horse.”
“You don’t have to touch him, you coward. Just brush him.”
I should walk out right now. Nobody calls me a coward. But I need her to help with the dogs. “Give me the stupid brush,” I mutter.
“Take it.” She shoves the brush at me.
I take it. Then I hold out the brush and move in until the bristles touch Blackfire’s neck.
His neck quivers, like a fly landed on it. The horse flinches.
I drop the brush and run for the gate.
“Wes, get back here!” Dakota shouts.
I stop running and turn around. Blackfire paws the dirt. He’s not rearing or anything. He’s tied up. “Okay. But keep him still, will you?”
Dakota sighs.
I try again. This time he lets the brush touch his neck, and he doesn’t freak out on me. Still, I stand as far from the horse as possible.
“Brush him!” Dakota whispers.
I move the brush down his neck and shoulder. He lets it happen. After a few strokes, I feel the tension seep out of him. I breathe again. On the iPod, jazz shifts into blues. At least Dakota didn’t do too bad with the tunes.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Dakota instructs. “I need to pick his hoof before I soak it.” She pulls a hoof pick out of her back pocket, eases in next to the gelding’s shoulder, and picks up the bad hoof. “Easy, boy,” she coos.
I move behind her and keep brushing while Dakota picks dirt and straw from the hoof.
“It still hasn’t drained,” she complains.
I stop brushing and stand where I can see better. When the hoof pick reaches the sore spot, Blackfire jerks his hoof away. It hits the ground an inch from Dakota’s foot.
I’m halfway to the gate before Dakota yells, “Wes! Get back here!”
I go back, but I keep my distance this time. She has to start all over with the hoof pick. When she’s done, she hands the pick to me without letting go of the hoof.
Slowly, she lets the horse’s foreleg uncurl. She moves to the side and aims the hoof over the bucket. Blackfire flattens his ears. I jump out of the way.
In a flash, the horse jerks back. He pulls his hoof out of Dakota’s hands and steps down into sawdust.
“Blackfire,” Dakota scolds. But she doesn’t raise her voice. She leans into his shoulder and lifts the hoof again. “Easy, boy,” she says, while she digs out the sawdust. Then she tries again.
This time Blackfire lowers his hoof above the bucket. He paws the water once, then steps into it. His hoof misses the center of the bucket. Dakota struggles to get the hoof in better, but his weight squishes the side of the rubber bucket. Water seeps out, spilling onto sawdust, making a brown paste on the floor of the arena.
“This isn’t working,” Dakota complains. She wrestles with the foreleg until she gets the hoof up again. But by now, most of the water has drained out.
“Maybe we should wait for Hank,” I suggest.
Dakota’s head snaps up. “No. And why are you just standing there? Go get more hot water. And salt, too.”
I hate having her boss me around, but I’m glad to get away from her horse. I take my time dragging out more salt and bringing another jug of water.
“Well, fill the bucket,” Dakota says, her voice edgy. “I can’t do everything.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, sarcasm overflowing. I refill the bucket with salt and water, then step out of the way.
“No you don’t,” she says. “I need you here.”
“And I need a house in the suburbs.”
“I’m not kidding around.” She’s spraying words through clenched teeth again.
I move a little closer.
“Get over here!”
I move in so close I can smell horse sweat.
“When I give you the signal,” she instructs, “push the bucket in. Got it?”
“Dakota—,” I start.
“Do it, Wes,” she commands. She lifts up the hoof and brushes the sawdust out. “Now.”
I shove the bucket under the raised hoof and step back as fast as I can.
“Closer!” she commands.
“Man,” I mutter. But I shove the bucket in closer.
Dakota eases the hoof into the bucket.
Blackfire starts to pull out his hoof, but Dakota is right there to guide it back to the bucket. “Come on, Blackfire,” she urges, swaying under the weight of his hoof.
Blackfire paws at the water, then plunges his hoof squarely into the bucket.
“Good boy,” Dakota coos, stroking the horse’s neck. “That’s it. This will help that soreness get out of you, baby.”
Blackfire seems to settle into the water. His eyelids droop. His neck twitches, but he keeps his hoof in the salty water.
“Don’t move,” Dakota whispers to me. “Do you have a watch?”
I shake my head. Neither of us has a watch on, so we can’t time the 20 minutes we’re supposed to leave the hoof in the water. But Blackfire keeps his hoof in there so long, it’s got to be at least that.
Finally, Dakota looks up at me. “Wes, we did it.”
In that instant, Blackfire lifts his hoof, then drops it back into the bucket.
Water flies up and then streams down like some giant fountain. Before I can move, before I can back out of the way, the water rains down on me, splashing me, soaking me with a warm, salty, gross, horse-hoof bath.
Ten
Even after four showers, I still smelled like horse all day Friday. Over the next few days, though, Dakota and I find our groove. It takes less and less time to walk the dogs, so we have more time to hang out with them. We even figure out how to soak Blackfire’s hoof without killing ourselves or each other.
Dakota stops being so bossy in the barn because I learn to read her horse and know what to do without her telling me. Whenever Blackfire is about to pull his hoof out of the bucket, he gives himself away by flattening his ears back. Then I grab the bucket, and Dakota strokes her horse’s leg until he settles his hoof back in the salty water.
* * *
Tuesday morning I cross the day off my calendar, like always. Popeye and Annie gave me a dog calendar for Christmas, and August’s dog of the month is a bulldog almost as ugly as our pound bulldog. As I make the big X on Tuesday, I can’t believe we’re almost there. Three more Xs to go, and Mom will have finished her 90 days in rehab. Ms. Bean, the social worker, promised to drive me to Chicago early enough so I can be there when Mom walks out on Saturday.
* * *
Tuesday night when we’re outside for a moon check, Kat walks out with the phone. “Gram wants to talk to you.” She shoves the phone at me.
Even in the dark I can feel everybody watching. “Hello?”
“Wesley?” It’s definitely Mrs. Coolidge. She pronounces every letter in my name. I don’t know how she does it. “I know you weren’t planning on bringing your dogs to the Manor until Friday, but there’s been a change of plans. I want you to introduce the dogs tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” No way the bulldog can even be in the same room with old people, not until I teach her not to jump on them. The Blab still gets too excited around strangers. And the terrier will be scared out of her wits. “They’re not ready yet.”
“Nonsense. All you need to do is introduce the dogs and yourselves—I hear Dakota will be joining you.”
“But—”
“I’ll be by for you tomorrow afternoon. Don’t keep me waiting.” She hangs up before I can say anythi
ng. Nobody wins an argument with Georgette Coolidge.
* * *
On Wednesday morning I get up so early I have to click on my bedside lamp to cross off the day on my calendar. The dogs are still asleep. Maybe that’s why they call them “lucky dogs.” I don’t think I slept all night. I just stared at the ceiling and imagined the bulldog knocking down old people, one by one.
Then I switched mind channels and worried about my mom. I tried to figure out where Mom will live when she gets out of rehab. I have to take care of things, or somebody like T the Troll will move in on her. But I don’t know how we’ll pay the bills this time. Or when Mom will be ready for me to move back in with her. Or who will take care of the dogs when I’m gone.
Once, about 5 a.m., I imagined I saw Sirius the Dog Star on the ceiling. He was growling.
Dakota’s not thrilled when I wake her up, but she stumbles downstairs and walks the dogs with me. When we’re done, she helps me get them settled again on the porch. The sun is up, but just barely.
“Blackfire’s probably still sleeping,” she says, letting loose a noisier-than-it-needs-to-be yawn. “He’s a lot smarter than some people around here.” She yawns again, and it makes me yawn too. “We can soak Blackfire’s hoof later. Mrs. C. said she wasn’t coming until this afternoon, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’m going back to bed.” She heads upstairs.
I start to follow her, then change my mind. I can’t remember the last time I was the only one up in the morning at Starlight Animal Rescue. Maybe never.
I listen to the creak of the stairs and Dakota’s footsteps overhead. Her door clicks open, then shut. From the other end of the house I hear Popeye snoring, or maybe Annie, or both. The kitchen’s still smothered in garlic from last night’s lasagna. There’s the great musty smell of slightly wet dog, too. I breathe deep, remembering the stench of burning rubber from the plant behind the projects. This is better. Way better.
“Come on, Rex,” I whisper, turning back to the kitchen. “Let’s see if we can find an apartment online. One that doesn’t stink. And loves dogs.”
Rex wags his tail and follows me to the kitchen.
I grab a stale donut and sit down at the computer. Popeye set it up between the kitchen and dining room so he could keep an eye on us when we’re online. Rex curls up at my feet and rests his head on my toes.
Mad Dog Page 5
