A Home for Goddesses and Dogs

by Leslie Connor

  But there were dogs everywhere I turned. A little black-and-white whatever-he-was (very big ears, a hairy plume of a tail) caught my eye. He was inside a small playpen, biting the stuffing out of a dog bed.

  Who’d take him home when he does that? Poor leftover, passed-over guy. Maybe he’d quit it. But, I wondered, if you don’t know dogs how do you take that leap of faith?

  I looked up and saw a boy in a red volunteer’s vest and a big hat with earflaps. He was probably my age, and he seemed to be looking right at me. He was also smiling. The wind took charge of my hair again. I ducked and tried to gather the wisps in my hands.

  Eileen startled me from behind. “Well? Interested in the little black-’n’-whitey, are you?”

  “Oh. No,” I said. “Well, he’s cute.” (Or maybe not so much.) “I don’t think I could ever pick.” I held my hair back with one hand. The ends whipped across my lips.

  “I know what you mean,” Eileen said. “Did you see that blond hunky one over there with Brat?” Eileen poked her thumb over her shoulder. “He’s a good-looker. I think Brat’s smitten. He could be the one.”

  I looked across the lot to where Aunt Brat was standing. A large yellow dog sat beside her, upright and alert. The hairs on his thick coat lifted in the wind while he surveyed the yard in a nervous, not-sure-what-to-do sort of way. He pushed out a bark now and then. But he also looked up at Aunt Brat every so often and dipped his pointy ears and licked his lips. That looked like a happy thing somehow. I wondered if he liked plain or suede shoe leather best. Would canvas be just as satisfying?

  “What say we go check him out?” Eileen said. “Huh-haw!”

  “Sure,” I chirped. I glanced back at the volunteering boy in the red vest. He was busy now, helping to untangle two dogs who had crossed up their leashes. He was still smiling. I turned and followed Eileen through the sea of canines and people toward Aunt Brat and the leftover yellow dog by her side.

  9

  Say What You Mean

  On the car ride home, my head warmed up and my hair lay still. The deciding was done and all that homelessness was out of my face. All the dogs—save one—were out of sight, if not completely out of mind.

  Eileen piped up in the front passenger’s seat, “Phew. I’m glad we’re outta there. You know, I could easily become one of those tortured types who adopts too many dogs, goes broke, and has to move in with relatives.”

  Aunt Brat let one beat go by. “No, Eileen. No, you could not end up like that.” She said it slowly and clearly.

  “You don’t know, Brat.”

  “Yes, I do. Because you have us and we’d never let you come to that.” Her face softened.

  “I’m just saying, it’s awful hard to walk away from that dog lot and not keep thinking about the ones that you didn’t bring home, is all.”

  From my spot in the back seat, I silently agreed. I hadn’t wanted any dog. Yet I was still thinking about the chocolate mama dog, the spotty one with the big head, even the busy little black-and-white one.

  “Well, if you put it that way, then yes, I understand,” Aunt Brat said. “Say what you mean,” she added.

  Three days, and this wasn’t the first time I’d heard Aunt Brat say that to Eileen.

  “Of course that’s what I mean,” Eileen said.

  “Well, if you say it then I know—”

  “Oh, Bratches, you’re too literal!” Eileen flapped a hand at her. “And you sound like a priss.”

  Half a laugh escaped through my lips—a sound like “pu-uh!” I made a few more noises to try to cover.

  Eileen turned back to give me a sideways grin. “Huh-haw!” Up in the rearview mirror Aunt Brat was giving me a smile.

  “Hey, Lydia, how’s he doing back there?” Aunt Brat asked.

  I looked into the back of the boxy car where the blond dog lay on his side, head down. His eyes were shut tight. “Sleeping,” I said. Then I checked again, half expecting to find he’d been faking. Would a dog do that—fake a car nap just for peace and quiet?

  I had. Just three days before, when Aunt Brat was driving us to Chelmsford. My way of taking in the changes slowly, I guess. Maybe that was true for the yellow dog too.

  10

  Not Bullet

  The yellow dog came with a name: Bullet.

  “We’re changing that as soon as possible,” Aunt Brat had said as the dog yanked her about the yard that first afternoon. She and Eileen had decided the dog should sniff around before they introduced him to Soonie—and sniff he did. Brat flew by us, then back again, with not-Bullet urgently pulling her toward all the unseen scents.

  Elloroy had come out on the porch in his slippers to watch. I heard him mutter the words “Oh” and “My” and “Isn’t he handsome?” Then he quietly asked a question into the air—a place from where he’d get no answer: “Is the new dog teaching Brat to heel?” I’m pretty sure I was the only one to hear him.

  “C-c-can we agree . . . ,” Aunt Brat called out on one of her bumpy flybys, “that B-Bullet sounds too much like a prophecy that he’s going to fulf-i-l-l-l-l . . . ?”

  “Agree!” Eileen called out.

  “We’ll have to work on a new name!” Aunt Brat said as she returned, huffing and puffing now. “Maybe he’ll tell it to us!”

  The dog tugged Brat again like he had a rag doll by the arm. I watched them bolt away. A few dog-name possibilities came to mind: Runaway. Renegade. Rocket. I can’t explain why I was thinking in Rs or why all the names that came to me seemed like more of those prophecies you wouldn’t want to see come true. Raceway. Roller Derby. I did not share my ideas.

  “Should we bring Soonie out to meet him?” Brat planted her stance and struggled to make not-Bullet stand still. “Boy! I tell ya! This is a lot of dog! Maybe he’ll be interested enough in Soonie to be a little more tranquil.”

  “Huh-haw!” Eileen threw her head back. “Tranquil? Really, Bratches? Are we a bit delusional today? Here, I’ll take a turn.” She took the leash from Aunt Brat and doubled it around her hand. “Hey, Elloroy! Let Soonie out!”

  Not-Bullet did take to Soonie—with enthusiasm. He quit dragging the humans and sniffed every inch of the greyhound. He opened his jaws over her head. “He’s not biting her, is he?” Aunt Brat asked.

  “No, no. Just measuring her—for consumption,” Eileen answered. She burst out laughing. The old dog took a few seconds’ worth of shenanigans, then she snapped her jaws at not-Bullet. The yellow dog bowed away like a big furry chicken.

  Elloroy muttered, “Atta girl, Soonie,” from his place up on the porch.

  Although the new dog could tug us around like laundry, the truth was that he hopped rather like a rabbit and walked low on bent legs. It had been noted on the papers that had come from the rescue group’s vet: weak hinds/check hips.

  “Could be dysplasia,” Eileen said. She explained that was a congenital hip problem, not uncommon in certain breeds. “Congenital means—”

  You are born with it. . . .

  I finished her sentence inside my head. I’d been hearing that word for years. I’d seen a cardiologist every year for most of my life. She checked my heart because of Mom’s heart. She was looking for that anomaly that might have been passed from my mother to me, which would also make it hereditary, just by the way. When I’d turned twelve that doctor finally decided I was in the clear. Mom had cried over that news. “What a relief!” she’d said. “I’m so glad I have kept my cruddy heart to myself.”

  Well, weak hinds be darned, the dog could still pull. I was afraid to be the human on the end of his leash. But I jumped in and helped, especially that evening. He was, it turned out, an unstoppable indoor puddle maker. Poop too. He kept hitting the rug. He ruined the dinner hour—and he absolutely squashed my appetite.

  My adults chalked it up to new surroundings. Dog jitters. But as the newcomer hauled me round the dark yard, I had my own thought: We’d managed to bring home the most troublesome leftover dog of the lot.

  Great job, us.<
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  11

  Night Whimperer

  The big yellow dog had to be crated downstairs for the night. “At least for now,” Eileen said. “There could be whining. Be prepared to stuff your fingers in your ears.”

  “Oh. I do feel sorry about leaving him down here alone,” said Aunt Brat. She turned off the lights. “But there’s no denying, he’s not trustworthy. Not yet.”

  Before I was even in bed, I could hear the dog crying. When I shuffled along the hall to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I peeked over the balcony. I could see him down in the dim inside his crate. He was sitting, crouched and looking up through the wires—a blond prisoner. I was pretty sure his eyes were following me. When I came back by I purposely did not look at him. I closed the bedroom door and slid under my covers.

  The dog’s cries stretched into long, pitiful sounds that ended in sharp huffs, as if he were saying, Harsh—harsh! I imagined Aunt Brat and Eileen pulling their pillows tight around their ears. Elloroy was probably hard enough of hearing to be all right with the door to his suite closed. We were to ignore the dog. We must not let him think that whining would get him anywhere.

  “Just know that he’s okay,” Aunt Brat had said. “He’s been well fed and watered. There is absolutely no doubt that he’s peed—”

  “Everywhere,” Eileen had interjected.

  “And he has a nice soft bed in his crate so he’s comfortable.” Aunt Brat had finished on that high note.

  Bed, I thought as I lay in mine. It still felt so new and not quite right. I pulled Aunt Brat’s old sleeping bag up over my head. I tried not to hear the mournful song of that impossible dog. When you do that, you end up waiting for every next cry, and if you are me, and if it seems like too much has happened in the past three or four or eight days, you want to join in. The sad dog sounds rose into the rafter space on the other side of my thin door. Then they faded and rose again.

  After a while, the metal crate rattled, then thrummed like the dog might be swatting the door with his paw. Finally, the silences grew longer. He pushed out a few little yips. I heard him grunt. There was a defeated sort of clunk and a sigh.

  There, you fuzzy yellow mess. . . . Give it up and go to sleep. . . .

  That dog had made this day a long one. Now that he’d gone quiet, sleep was going to come easy and feel good. I sighed. I drifted.

  Scritch-scritch. Scritch.

  No way. . . .

  But yes. There it was again—the noise behind that sheep poster. I reached for the flashlight that hung beside my bed and waited. I heard the scritchy-scratchy sound again. I bounced to my knees and blasted those paper sheep with light. I squinted. Right under the lip of the shortest sheep, a flap of torn paper moved like a creepy old tongue. I held the light steady. A tiny pointed head poked itself out from under the flap. Out dropped a mouse—as if the sheep had spat it. The mouse scurried along the floorboards. I lost sight of it when it reached the brick chimney.

  Hmm. But where was it now?

  I traced the edge of the room with the beam of light. I noted the slim gap between the bottom of my bedroom door and the threshold. I’d heard that mice could flatten themselves to fit through a vent slot. That mouse could be down the hall and into the bathroom or in Aunt Brat and Eileen’s room already. Or . . .

  I tipped myself upside down to look beneath my bed. I reached under and pushed on the box with the goddesses in it. No mouse. I checked along the windowed wall. Nothing. But what ancient secrets did this room have? How many mouse holes and escape hatches?

  I got out of bed and crouched in front of the poster of the sheep trio. I picked open that paper flap—like I was looking under that sheep’s lip. I tested the spot with my finger. Sure enough, I found a hole in the plaster. I pushed my finger in all the way up to my first knuckle. When I pulled it back out, plaster crumbs came with it, and so did a really big question: What was back there? How big a space?

  I wanted to thump my knuckles on it, see if it sounded hollow or solid, but I resisted. Surely I’d wake up the dog—or humans—if I went knocking about. I tried using the flashlight to look into the hole, but it was impossible to see anything. I pinched the flashlight in my knees so I could use both hands to pick at the corners of the sheep poster. If I peeled it back, maybe I’d find another hole—a bigger one.

  Well, my knees failed and the flashlight hit the floor with a terrible thunk. The yellow dog let out one sharp bark. Then three more. I scuttled back to bed as fast as I could. I pulled the covers back over my head. Heart pounding, I whispered, “Hey, mouse—and hey, dog—this isn’t over.”

  12

  A Dark Spot in the Morning

  Aiming to be helpful, I was the first one downstairs on Sunday morning. I planned to start the coffee. But the yellow dog was already standing in his crate, murmuring at me while his huge puff of a tail intermittently banged on the wires.

  “Okay, okay,” I whispered. I rushed my feet into my sneaker-boots, threw on my jacket, and sprang the dog from the pen. It was all I could do to clip the leash on him before he dragged me out the front door and down the steps. Then it was pull-pull, struggle-struggle, sniff-sniff everything. I tried to accommodate his every sniff wish, in spite of the fact that I was spattering my own legs—and the sneakers I loved—with mud every step of the way.

  I spoke nicely. “Okay, Not-Bullet, big fella, big pal. Take a pee, a good long pee!” But he left only little sprinkles here and there. How does one make a dog go? I wondered. Go outside, that is. I could almost hear my new adults saying it: Give him ample time. . . .

  So I did. We must have stamped around in the mud for ten minutes. Forever. Both of us were panting. The dog’s tongue hung out one side of his mouth. I noticed it was pink with a lot of dark, bluish spots on it. “Hey,” I said as he powered forward, “did you eat a basket of blueberries?”

  At least half a dozen times he squatted like he was about to do or make whatever. But then he’d abandon the mission. I was about dying for my cup of coffee by the time I pulled him back up the steps and inside. I smelled the brew. Someone else was up too. I held his collar, grabbed one of the old towels, and began to wipe his paws. He drew them away and jumped backward. Then he lunged forward and tried to yank the towel out of my hands. He shook his head and his tags jingled.

  “And how are we this morning?” Aunt Brat stood smiling down at the dog and me. Soonie stood behind Aunt Brat’s legs, blinking her fawn eyes.

  “Oh, okay,” I said. The yellow dog spotted Soonie. His toenails scraped the floor as he raced toward her. I held him back, but pretty soon all bets would be off. He was too much.

  “He had a reasonably good night,” she said cheerily. “A few bumps, bangs, and barks, I guess.”

  “Yes,” I said, knowing that I’d caused some of that.

  “And this morning?” she asked, giving me a big questioning side-eye. “Any luck out there?” I shook my head.

  “No significant pees, no poo,” I said. I gave his feet a final swipe. He mouthed my knuckles. I tried to ignore that. “I guess he’s empty,” I said.

  “Hmm . . . I think it best we keep close watch on him if he hasn’t performed.”

  “Right. Where do you want him?” I asked. I kept my aching fingers curled around his collar. “Back in the crate?”

  “No,” said Aunt Brat. “Let’s allow him to be with us. The goal is to make him part of the family. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she headed back toward the kitchen, Soonie still at her skirt.

  “All right,” I said. I let Not-Bullet go and he sprang away from me. I thought he’d bolt toward the poor old greyhound, but instead he began to tour the living room. I watched him nose the rug exactly where he’d made his first puddle yesterday. I narrowed my eyes at him.

  I took in a whiff of coffee air and thought, I want, I want.

  Eileen came teetering down the stairs. “Good morning! Good morning, big boy!” The dog came to her! He even wagged his tail a tiny bit.

  “We’re lettin
g him move about freely for a while,” Aunt Brat said.

  “Good, good.” Eileen stretched her arms up over her head and yawned loudly. The dog stared at her, his ears up and his head on a tilt. Eileen saw that and finished the yawn in a big laugh. The dog turned weird. He crouched and barked at her. “Oh, shush! Come here, you lump. Come for a patting,” she said. She leaned forward and gently clapped her hands. The dog rounded away. “Oh, no? Not feeling sociable this morning? Okay, okay. I’ll get my sugar in my coffee, then.”

  In the time it took her to reach the coffeepot, the dog reached the living room. He walked a tight circle, then in a split-second move dropped his rear end low. “Uh-oh!” I rushed toward him. Too late. He skittered away to one side and there it was, a new dark spot on the braid rug.

  “Oh, no!” Aunt Brat moaned. The dog tried to weave himself between and behind the furniture, all the while looking at us like we were about to do him wrong. I did not know a dog could look so mistrustful. Aunt Brat shook her head. “We’re not reading his signals properly.” (I didn’t think there had been a signal.) “Oh well. It’s all right.” She spoke up louder, cheerier.

  “I’ll take him out,” Eileen said. “You’re a good boy. It’s fine. It’s fine.”

  Right, I thought. I slid a leaf of newspapers under the rug below the spot and another leaf on top. I marched my feet on it. Everything is fine here. We have a suspicious-faced, indoor-peeing machine. Pee-ewe! But it’s fine.

  “Ugh,” said Aunt Brat. She came over and shook a mix of vinegar and water over the rug. “Here we go again. Blot, rinse, and repeat.”

  13

  Picking the Hole

  Eileen had to work at the feedstore from noon to four. “I’ll take you,” said Aunt Brat. “I’ll go on from there to get groceries and gasoline. I’ll pick you up later.”