A Home for Goddesses and Dogs

by Leslie Connor

  I was going to need something to stand on in order to reach the rafters. My art trunk was good and sturdy, and narrow enough to make it through the hole, and long enough to span the joists. But it was also heavy. Easy fix: I lifted all the trays out of it. I dropped the lid back on and hauled it into the crawl. It raised me up about a foot, which was enough.

  I set to work putting up the goddesses, one by one, on their yarn hangers. By the time I was done, I had raw fingers and aching thumbs from pressing pushpins into the wood—and I was about frozen. But there they were. I’d staggered the heights like the rain forest banners at the school. I had a gallery of goddesses. “Yes!” I whispered.

  Check it out, Mom!

  I could step along the joists and be among the goddesses; I could brush my fingers against them and set them gently swinging. I breathed in the smell of paint, paper, and paste—three of my favorite scents in this world; three scents that made me feel like I could turn and find my mother right beside me.

  I was shivering when I finally stepped back through the hole and into my room, which felt warm and was bright. I turned and shone the light into the hole. Our She-Janus was closest to the entrance—looking forward and back. It seemed just right.

  Later, when I tacked the sheep poster back over the opening, I had the thought that I was a little sorry to entomb the goddesses like this. But it was better than keeping them boxed. I could drop in and see them and not have to explain them.

  I smoothed my hand over the sheep poster. “Take care of the goddesses, you sheep,” I said. “Those who are usually guarded must now guard.”

  Twice in the night I got up and peeled the poster and shone light on the goddesses. I wrapped up in Aunt Brat’s sleeping bag and sat outside the hole looking in.

  Skitch-skitch. Skitch.

  Oh! Where?

  I rolled the light through the crawl until I spotted the mouse scurrying across one of the joists, nimble and quick. The creature didn’t seem to mind my light. It stopped on its haunches—looking adorable—and worked a little tuft of stolen yarn in its wee muzzle.

  At home with the goddesses. . . .

  30

  A Bad Green Machine

  There had been a couple of inches of snow, which made things prettier and more interesting as I walked Guffer out around the yard early one Saturday morning. Of course, he made dozens of stops and a lot of yellow snow.

  “You’re ruining it,” I told him. “You think you are artistic? Trust me, that’s not beautiful.” I pointed at the pee-spotted snow. He followed my finger with his nose, hoping for a treat, I am sure. “Snow should be white, not citron,” I said, drawing my hand back. I yawned. I needed coffee. I gave him a gentle tug and coaxed him around the corner of the barn. The house was in sight but still a long way across the yard. “Come on, Guffer. Come— Whoa!”

  I squinted, eyes on the porch. Raya Delatorre and Sari Winkle were sitting on the snowy steps, facing each other. I turned Guffer as quickly as I could and pulled him back behind the barn.

  I thought most teenagers—the ones who were not me—slept in late on winter Saturdays. Not the case with those two. I didn’t have my phone with me, and I would not have taken the time to look anyway, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t even nine a.m. yet. I was short on sleep—my own fault for goddess gazing in the middle of the night. I did not feel like walking with Raya and Sari, not today.

  I marched beside the barn right at the tree line, thinking I’d wait them out. Trouble was, if Guffer spotted them he’d start his big chicken-dog barking and give us away. “Come on,” I whispered to him. “Come!” I rattled his leash, and he came bouncing at me—then past me. My arm jerked at the socket. Guffer headed into the woods. I let him lead. Within seconds he found what seemed to be a path.

  Guff’s nose was to the ground, his legs going at a hop. I hustled behind him. I kept one arm up to knock back the branches. I figured we’d go ten minutes out, then I’d turn him back. Raya and Sari wouldn’t wait twenty minutes. I followed Guffer, and before long he got me into a run under some low-hanging limbs. I ducked, but tree-branch fingers picked my hat right off my head. “No!” I cried.

  My mom made that hat!

  I tried to set my brakes. Guffer, the engine, hauled forward. “Stop!” I demanded. I dug my heels in, slipped on the snow, then stumbled forward a few steps. I looked back at my bright blue hat bobbing over the trail.

  “Guffer! Stop!” I said firmly. We were going back for the hat. I tightened my grip on the loop of the leash. I pulled. “Come! Come!” He resisted. I was so sick of battling him.

  The leash grew tense as a tightrope between us. His big blond ruff gathered into a circle around his face like a furry hood. He struggled, twisting his head left and right, backing himself away from me until—pop! He was out of the collar. I fell on my butt. I sat in the slush, leash in my hand. I cursed. How many times had I seen him pull that trick?

  Well up the trail, I saw the flash of his pale tail sailing away from me. “Well, I guess that’s what it means to hightail it out of somewhere,” I mumbled.

  I stood up and started after him, aware that it rarely helped to chase. I called his name. Darned if he didn’t stop and look back at me. He even cocked his head. “Come!” I said. He looked like he might be thinking it over. “Yeah! Come on, boy.” I put my hand in my pocket, a sign that I had a treat for him. He threw his head up, jaw open like he was letting out a big dog laugh. He dove away at a gallop.

  “No!” I hurried after him. Here I was with a dog who supposedly had weak hinds and yet he could out-dodge and outrun me. Why was he like this? Why did it scare me so much? That was the worst part. I was afraid for him. All the time! I worried he’d run into the road when we were at the bus stop or getting the mail at the bottom of the hill; I worried he’d get lost in these woods where the trees all looked the same for as far as my eye could see.

  I caught a few glimpses of his blondness through the tree trunks. But then I lost him again. I followed his broad paw prints in the soft, shallow snow. Finally, I saw a clearing up ahead. Well, more like the end of the woods. Where am I? I wondered. “Perhaps I’m not in Chelmsford anymore. . . .”

  I heard a buzzing sound—a machine—not too far off. Then barking. Definitely Guffer. Definitely his scared bark. I saw a flash of bright green. Then the buzzing stopped.

  “Guff? . . . Guffer?”

  I picked up my pace. I stepped over a crumbly rock wall and into a field. I saw a bright green four-wheeler—just sitting—and several long white barns off in the distance.

  “Hey!” An angry voice cut the air. I turned and froze. About twenty feet from me stood a man in a grubby brown jacket. His face hung in a mean frown. His mud-brown hair was perfectly straight and looked like it’d been buttered flat to his head. “Is that your dog?” he asked.

  Guffer bounded forth from the edge of the clearing where we stood. He barked and slinked, first at the four-wheeler, then at the guy. His fur stood up along the ridge of his back—scared hairs like I’d never seen on him.

  “Guffer, come!” I tried. “Come!” He came toward me but stayed just out of reach. I had no choice: I lunged and grabbed his ruff. He yipped out loud. I pulled him toward me and wrapped my arms around his chest.

  The man stepped closer and raised a weathered finger. His knuckle looked like a crust of dried cement. Slowly, he dropped his fingertip so that it pointed right at me. “I said, is that your dog?”

  “Y-yes,” I said. Guffer rumbled long and low. I straddled him and pinched him between my knees. I thought about explaining that he was more my aunt’s dog, and I’d never wanted him, and that I certainly didn’t want him right this minute. Yet I clung to the dog like both our lives depended on it.

  Behave, behave, behave.

  “He’s been coming around here,” the man said. “Troublemaker. And I’m telling you, I won’t hesitate to defend my livestock.”

  “Defend?”

  “Happy to pump him full of lead.”


  I gulped. What was he saying? He’d shoot Guffer? Poor mixed-up, crazy, scared Guffer? I began to shake—a lot. I willed my knees to be strong and steady. I kept hold of the dog.

  “S-sorry,” I said. “H-he doesn’t really run. I mean we don’t p-purposely let him go—”

  I stopped talking when I saw a boy coming across the field—a smiling boy. I squinted. Moss Capperow. He came jogging up behind the man in the brown coat. Guffer twisted excitedly. His front feet came off the ground. His paws cycled in the air.

  Moss called out, “Unc! Hey, Uncle Mick!” He slowed to a walk. “The dog’s okay. I don’t think he’d hurt a flea. Well, maybe a flea since he is a dog.”

  The uncle wheeled on Moss. “You think this is funny?” Moss’s smile dropped away. “Think you know better than I know? Tell me yes, and I’ll kick your ass from here to home.”

  My breath stopped. I stared at the angry uncle.

  “No, Uncle Mick. I don’t think that.”

  Moss found a little bit of his ever-smiling boy self. He nodded at me. “Hi, Lydia.”

  “Hi,” I said back. I barely heard my own voice. I had all I could do to hang on to Guffer. He was so nervous, rumbling and twisting. He got loose from my knee vise. “Guff, no!” I said as sternly as I could. He bounced forward, then slipped back behind my legs. I snagged him. Held him. Moss’s uncle watched, stone-faced. “I’m sorry, he’s a pretty b-bad dog,” I explained. I trapped Guffer in my knees again. I pressed his hinds down. “Sit!” I hissed.

  “I’m going to be frank,” the uncle said. “A bad dog is a dead dog as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Aw, Uncle Mick, this guy is a rescue. He’s still in training.” Moss looked at me. “Right?”

  “Y-yes,” I said. “He’s just—a dog with an unknown past and we, well, we are trying to train him. It’s just taking a while.” My jaw shivered uncontrollably.

  The Capperow uncle lifted his chin at me and said, “I strongly recommend you keep him tied. Tied,” he repeated. He poked his callused finger at me again. “Keep him away from this farm and all the farms around here.” The Uncle Mick person said, “If you don’t, you will have trouble. You’ll be paying for dead livestock.”

  “Dead livestock . . . oh—” I flashed on the pygmy goats. My heart pounded. “This dog—I don’t think he’d ever k-kill—”

  “Then you don’t know dogs,” the uncle snapped. “Don’t let me catch him around here again, or you’ll find yourself digging a hole just his size. You understand?”

  I was speechless. Shaking inside and out. Knees collapsing.

  “Uncle Mick, really, the dog’s only been here for—”

  “Moss!” the uncle cut him off. “Get the girl and her dog on a path out of here. Then get to your chores in the barn.” He turned and strode to his four-wheeler. From the back, Moss’s uncle wasn’t anything but a loose pair of pants and a jacket that looked uncomfortably short. But I was not going to underestimate him. I held tight to the dog while the uncle threw his leg over the seat of the four-wheeler. Guffer wriggled and whined. He twisted harder in my arms when Moss’s uncle started up the engine. “It’s okay,” I whispered. It seemed like he wanted to look at me but couldn’t risk taking his eyes off that machine.

  The wheels . . .

  Neither the dog nor Moss nor I moved until his uncle was well across the pasture. Moss sighed. Guffer settled, somewhat, against my legs. I stopped shaking. (Mostly.) I opened up Guffer’s collar.

  “Can I help?” Moss asked.

  “No. Thank you. I got it. And I don’t need to be put back on the path,” I added. I circled Guffer’s neck with the collar and snapped it shut. He jumped up and down at the end of the leash. Moss Capperow laughed. He held a hand out to the dog, and he tried to pat him. Guff wagged his tail slightly, then leapt away.

  “What’s the matter, big guy?” Moss offered his hand again. But Guffer looked back at Moss like the boy had fireworks for fingertips. “He’s a really great dog,” said Moss.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think your uncle would say so,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t usually agree with my uncle.” He shrugged in an embarrassed sort of way. “Sorry. He thinks he’s fighting for the good of the farm. But really, he’s just plain fighting. I’ll talk to my dad about it because, honestly, that’s not how we treat our neighbors,” Moss said.

  I knew it wasn’t Moss’s fault. I tried to meet his eyes, but he was looking at the ground near my feet, and smiling, of course. I shifted to one side, fearing I was standing in a dog poop or something. That would be fitting. “Y-you should let me walk you back to the path,” Moss said, and then I saw him glance down again. Then up at me. Then down. His smile recharged twice over. Why was Moss Capperow so fixed on my feet! Finally, I looked down at them myself.

  Oh. Is this about the ugly boots . . . really?

  I stabbed the toe of one boot into the ground. “These are my dog chasers,” I explained. Then I wondered why I had bothered to say it.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s good,” he said. “Hey, as long as they work, right?”

  “This is what I figure,” I said.

  “And who cares where they came from,” he said, and right then I felt like I’d missed something. “Well,” he said, “are you sure I can’t help you get back on the path? You’re still new around here.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Sorry for the bad behavior. And the barking.”

  Moss Capperow laughed out loud. “Did you bark, Lydia? So sorry I missed that.”

  I turned my face away from him before he could see me crack a huge smile. I shortened up on Guffer’s leash and followed my own soggy footprints toward home—and oh yeah, my blue hat.

  31

  Calling Tennessee

  It didn’t matter that the very last thing Moss Capperow said to me was pretty funny. The morning had left a rotten hollow in my chest. I could still feel it as I brought Guffer through the door.

  “Lydia! There you are!” Aunt Brat was moving toward me from the kitchen, pressing her hand into her breastbone.

  “Oh, phew!” said Eileen. “We sure did wonder.”

  “We wondered? No, we were worried,” Aunt Brat said. “Please take your phone with you next time.” She swept her arms toward the front porch. “The girls were here for you—”

  Oh yeah . . . Raya and Sari. . . .

  I had forgotten.

  “Sorry,” I said, though I’d already decided that I was not going to take a lot of blame for this. The dog had run off; that’d happened to all of us. “I didn’t mean to be out there so long.” I pushed my hat off and unclipped Guffer. He hustled to the water bowl, took a long drink, then went over to dribble on Soonie’s head. I pried off my boots and found myself staring down at the peeled-back tongue and those initials in black ink: MCAP.

  Moss Capperow . . . of course. . . .

  I sank back against the wall and puffed out a long breath. That’s why he’d been staring at my feet. These boots had been his boots. “Whatever,” I muttered. I had much more serious business. I straightened up—full height—and looked at my adults. “I have to tell you something,” I said. “It’s about the dog.”

  I recounted my encounter with the Capperows. Aunt Brat and Eileen were not pleased about the way the Uncle Mick person had spoken to me and threatened the dog. Like me, they simply didn’t believe Guffer was a killer.

  “But best we acknowledge that our Guff has probably prowled around the Capperow farm,” Aunt Brat conceded.

  “Never guessed he’d gone that far. We’ve got to put a stop to that,” Eileen said. She gave her head a scratch and a shake.

  “Fine,” said Aunt Brat, “but I am furious that Capperow treated Lydia that way. That’s intimidation.”

  “Capperow is not a warm guy,” Eileen said in a thoughtful sort of way. “He comes into the Feed, and when he’s not unpleasant, he’s silent.”

  “Nobody needs to berate a child who is merely trying to collect her dog.”

&n
bsp; Not my dog. . . .

  “Agreed. But you’re forgetting one thing, Brat,” said Eileen.

  “What? What am I forgetting?”

  “He’s a farmer. Hard enough living without someone’s naughty doggie coming around to nip the hocks of his herd.”

  Aunt Brat let out a huff. “Do we know that’s what happened? Did this dog do that? For that matter, were Mr. Capperow’s cows even injured?”

  As soon as she said it, the image of the two maimed goats flashed. My classmates had suggested it was a dog attack. I didn’t have to be a dog person or a farmer to disagree. Nothing about their injuries had looked like a dog attack to me. A dog’s teeth would puncture. Tear. The goats had been cut. Ugh.

  Eileen put one hand up. “Point of view, Brat. To a farmer, the Guffster looks guilty just for having four paws and a mouth that says woof.”

  I sighed. They could talk all they wanted. “We have to keep Guffer from roaming,” I said. “We have to do better at—” I stopped and shook my head. “I wish we knew his past. That man Capperow, he was riding on one of those four-wheelers and Guff was out of his mind over it,” I said. “Why? And why does he act mistrustful? Why does he poop and pee inside the house? Still! Why doesn’t he like us?” I said.

  Aunt Brat and Eileen looked surprised.

  “Like us?” Aunt Brat said. She looked at the dog.

  “He—he likes us.” Eileen said this slowly. “He’s just independent. Not as affectionate as Soonie girl. As for his past, we can only guess at that and it probably won’t do a lot of good. We have to go forward.”

  “We’ll redouble our efforts to keep him close,” Aunt Brat said. “Lydia is right to feel worried, especially after such a hellacious encounter. Vicious accusations. Nightmarish threats—that’s what you’re saying, right? You’re worried about him?”

  I nodded yes.

  “Me too. We’ll tighten his collar so he can’t pull out of it—and we’ll keep trying to make him feel secure here at home. I’m committed,” she said.