Dawn of the Jed (13 page)

He nosed at the door, pushing at it with his muzzle. His tail wagged slowly, meaning he was getting some feeling back after I reattached it. Each time he took it off, it took a little longer, and a little more duct tape, to reattach it. I wondered if there might come a time when no amount of duct tape and staples would keep it on. And if not, would the same thing happen to me someday when I was an old person? Say when I was way up there, like forty-five, and my leg fell off because I was doing an old-person dance. What if it didn’t go back on? What then?

“Tread, please sit already!”

I reached for the bell just as the door opened. Luke’s eye peered from the crack.

“Hey, Jed.”

“Hey.”

“Your dog OK?

“Yeah, why?”

“I heard you screaming at him, so I was just seeing if you had him under control.”

I shook my head. This was going to be tougher than I thought.

I gave the leash a tug, bringing Tread to my side. I placed my other hand at his tail joint and pushed down gently while pulling up on the leash. I used the techniques on the
The Dog Mutterer
DVD. Dad bought it for me when Tread got into the trash in the master bedroom, spreading around stuff I am not going to get into because I’m still wishing I could un-see it all.

“Sit.” Still pushing gently, lifting on the leash.

“Sit.” Tread’s legs buckled slightly.

“Sit.” He kneeled, his butt just inches off the ground.

“Sit.” One last not-as-gentle push. We had touchdown!

“See, all good,” I said.

“Really?” Luke stuck his index finger though the crack, pointing at Tread.

Who was standing.

“Even dogs with fully functioning internal systems can be lacking in basic intelligence,” I said. “They chase birds, squirrels, and other things they can’t possibly catch. They run from vacuum cleaners because canine physics says they can be sucked through a two-inch-wide nozzle. And why is it the more something smells, the more they want to rub in it? And you don’t even want me to get started on the whole butt-sniffing thing.”

“I’m not worried about those dogs,” Luke said. “Just that one.”

I kneeled next to Tread, leaning my face toward his nose. A not-so-pink tongue emerged and gave my cheek a swipe.

“Dude, this pooch is the Mother Teresa of dogs.”

“Who’s Mother Teresa?”

“Really? She was the nun who spent her whole life being nice. The poorer you were, the nicer she was to you. Like the opposite of a politician. You need to pay more attention in history.”

“Jed, I’m sorry. I know we’ve been friends, like, forever, but Tread should be dead, man. Tread should be dead.”

I knew in my heart he was right. Tread
should
be dead. But he wasn’t. He howled when the phone rang. He sat up for treats. He ran to his dog bed as soon as Dad broke out the vacuum.

Just like a regular dog.

“There’s no way I’m going to talk you into liking Tread,” I said. “But how about you go to lunch with us? Spend some time with him. Make up your own mind.”

Luke opened the door another few inches. He looked at Tread, who suddenly sat without being told, as if realizing what was at stake.

“OK, but you know dogs aren’t allowed in restaurants,” Luke said. “Especially dead dogs.”

“So we’ll go to Burger Bucket.”

“I think even Burger Bucket considers itself a restaurant.”

“Really? Strange concept. We’ll figure it out.”

“Fine,” Luke said, stepping outside and shutting the door. “You first.”

Burger Bucket had many advantages. It was within walking distance. It was cheap. It was fast. And the teens behind the counter got your order right at least seventy percent of the time. About the same as the staff’s high school graduation rate.

I wanted to tell Luke all about Tread, about the cool stuff he did, and his odd traits. But why? He was convinced Tread was a danger, if not the first member of a zombie army consisting of run-over dogs looking for revenge. There was no way I was going to change his mind.

We walked in silence, Luke about two steps behind me with Tread pulling at the leash until it was the time I dreaded. He took a step off the sidewalk and squatted. I used one of the Mutt Mitts I had for such occasions, carrying it a few blocks before we came across a trash can. I glanced around to make sure Robbie was nowhere in sight before ditching the bag. His tiresome habit of tossing me in trash cans didn’t take weekends off.

“You know why cats will always be a better choice than dogs?” Luke said. “Two words: litter box.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But dogs are happy to hang with you. The only way you know you have a cat is when the food dish is empty.”

Luke held up his hand to say “Stop,” as if he were king and I was his court jester.

I bit my tongue, my teeth sinking into flesh. It didn’t hurt and my tongue would bounce right back. But sometimes I took sayings literally, like now. I needed to shut up for now. This was not a battle worth fighting. I needed Luke’s support, so I was in this for the long haul.

It was mid-afternoon, so the Burger Bucket’s parking lot was only half-full. We went in the side entrance, met by the wonderful scents that only a fully operational fryer can deliver. Tread stopped, put his nose in the air, and sniffed. I envied that his nose was one thousand times more sensitive than mine, detecting hundreds of other fry-based aromas I could only dream of.

Something dripped from Tread’s lips. Ooze?
Please don’t let it be Ooze. Not here, not now.

I dipped my finger into the spot on the floor. Rubbed it with my thumb.

Saliva. Pure, fast-food-inspired doggy saliva. Cool.

Luke stepped to the counter.

“I’ll have the No. 2 bucket with deep-fried bun, pail of fries with extra drippings, and large lemonade with three sugar shots.”

“OK, No. 2, drown the bun,” the clerk said. “Fries, make ’em sweat. And just a large lemonade? Not the extra large, or the jumbo, or the industrial? You can get the industrial for just a dollar more.”

“What? When did you guys change the drink sizes?”

“Couple of weeks ago. Part of our ‘Be Engorge-ous’ campaign. Freedom to consume and all that. So what would you like?”

“How big’s the industrial?”

“Not sure, but we have to bring it to your table on a special cart. Use of a straw is mandatory because we don’t carry insurance if you hurt yourself trying to lift it.”

“Nah, I’ll stick with the large.”

“That’ll be … wait, what’s that?”

The clerk pointed to Tread, who stood patiently next to me behind Luke.

Luke stepped aside and said to me, “You want to take this?”

“Sure,” I said, looking at the clerk who was still staring at Tread. “This is Tread, my service dog.”

“That’s a dog? Dude, that is like no dog I’ve ever seen. That’s, that’s … that goat sucking thing, what’s it called?”

“Chupacabra?”

“That’s it,” the clerk said. “Dude, you can’t bring a chupacabra in here. Heck, you can’t even bring a dog in here. But you especially can’t bring a chupacabra in here. You know they eat souls, right? I like my soul.”

“If you like your soul, what are you doing at the Burger Bucket?” I said. “Your job is more soul-sucking than my dog. And it is a dog. A service dog.”

“You stay there, I’m going to get Dennis, our manager. He’ll tell you all about our ‘No chupacabra’ policy. Just, just … don’t move.”

This was exactly the kind of scene I did not want. I didn’t have to turn around to know every eye in the place was on Tread. But I turned around anyway.

Yup, I was right. About twenty people had stopped in the middle of their buckets to tune into the rest of the drama.

“Are you the kid with the chupacabra?”

A voice behind me. A little deeper. Somewhat more adult.

I swiveled around and there, behind the counter, was a guy wearing a black Burger Bucket shirt, rather than the standard-issue yellow Burger Bucket polo shirt. His blond hair was stuffed under a black Burger Bucket beret. He stood as an ultimate sign of Burger Bucket administrative power.

“It’s not a chupacabra,” I muttered.

“What? Speak up, son.”

Son? Dennis was maybe twenty-three, and not much taller than me.

“This is Tread, he’s my service dog,” I said. “He’s not a chupacabra.”

I turned toward Luke, who now was fifteen feet away and seemed to be heading slowly to the exit. “Luke, can you clear this up please?”

Dennis spoke to Luke. “He with you?”

Luke hesitated. My best friend in the whole world had to think about it.

“Yeah,” Luke said.

“The chupacabra, too?”

“No, that’s his. Jed’s. Kid holding the leash.”

“I gathered that,” Dennis said, turning back to me. “Maybe you aren’t aware of our very strict ‘No Chupacabra’ policy. They’re messy and they eat souls.”

“Tread’s a service—”

“A service dog, right, I heard you the first time. So I assume if someone brings in their seeing-eye Bigfoot, we have to allow that. Or a therapy werewolf. Where do we draw the line, son? Where do we draw—”

“
IT’S NOT A FREAKING CHUPACABRA, DAMN IT
!”

For the next ten seconds, the only sound was the bubbling oil in the fryer. Dennis stood with his mouth open. The kid who summoned Dennis stared at me. Luke stood rooted in his spot.

Tread? He lay on the floor and rolled over on his back.

Which is where he was when Dennis finally spoke up.

“I will admit to never seeing a chupacabra flip over for a tummy rub,” he said.

“Admit it, you’ve never seen a chupacabra, period,” I said. “And you’re not seeing a chupacabra now. This is Tread. My service dog.”

Dennis moved out from behind the counter to deal with the situation personally, and more quietly.

“I’m Dennis, Afternoon Shift Co-Managing Associate Supervisor, Assistant Class,” he said, sticking out his hand. “And you are?”

“Jed, uh, customer,” I said, returning his grip. “Or at least trying to be.”

Dennis kneeled next to Tread, moving his eyes up and down Tread’s thin frame, hesitating at the duct tape attached to Tread’s tail joint.

“Injury?” he asked.

“You could say that. Nothing serious. Just a flesh wound.”

“I love dogs,” he said, placing his palm on Tread’s stomach and rubbing gently. The tail wagged so hard I prayed for it not to come off. “Service dog, you say?”

“Absolutely.”

“How so? Save for your pallor, and complete lack of knowledge of all things chupacabra, you seem to be in no need of a service dog.”

Finally, the moment I’d been waiting for.

“You would think that, yes,” I said in a Dennis-like voice, thinking it might get me the respect I needed to pull this off. “But Tread has been meticulously trained to respond to a very special need. A need that perhaps only I exhibit. Observe.”

Grasping my left hand with my right, I gave it a twist one way, then another. My tendons and ligaments gave way, pulling my hand off my wrist. Before Dennis could say a word, I tossed it over a row of booths.

“Tread.” The dog flipped to his feet and stood at attention. “Fetch.”

This was the one trick Tread could reliably do. At first, all he’d ever fetch was his tail. He had no interest in tennis balls or other toys. Then one day while Dad and I were playing catch in the backyard, I hurled a fastball. Too fast. My hand went with the baseball. Tread zipped after it, returning it to me. It was as if he’d been bred to do it. Perhaps it was genetically encoded in the Ooze.

Tread ran around the booths, his claws skidding on the linoleum. A crash, a scream. Across the room, where I’d thrown my hand, a couple jumped from their seats and raced outside.

Seconds later Tread was back, with my hand in his mouth.

“Still working the bugs out,” I told Dennis, taking the hand Tread dropped at my feet.

A clap came from the back of the dining area, slow and rhythmic. Another joined in, and another. Soon everyone in the place was applauding.

Even Luke.

“Now I recognize you,” Dennis said, again offering to shake my hand. “Jed, the little undead boy I’ve heard so much about. A pleasure. And who is this again?”

“Tread.”

“Tread does perform a valuable service, I see that,” Dennis said. “But unless he’s properly certified, I can’t allow him in the Burger Bucket. I’m sure you understand.”

“I guess, yeah.” I proved my point. And that Tread was a pretty awesome dog, even if he looked like a chupacabra. Which he did not.

“May I make a request?” Dennis asked. He took out his cell phone, swiped the screen a few times, and tapped. “I’d love to record you for an ad I’m trying to convince upper management to create. Would you say, ‘It’s all about the fryin’, if I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’.’ Please?”

“No. But thanks for asking.”

“Certainly. You and Tread have a marvelous rest of the day.”

Luke and I headed out. This time he walked next to me, and halfway home, he asked to take the leash. A nice gesture, and Tread behaved well for him.

“I’m still kinda freaked out about how Tread came to be,” Luke said. “But he seems OK. Just promise me one thing.”

“No more making zombie dogs?”

“Yes. Or chupacabras.”

“Deal.”

We weren’t done. I’d answered all of Luke’s questions, now he had to answer one of mine.

“Luke, you know Ray Knowles, right?”

“The Tech Club geek, right? Yeah, sort of. Why?”

“It didn’t seem like you ‘sort of’ knew him when you were hanging at the overachievers table, as if you’d just gotten into Yale or something.”

“What are you talking about?”

I stopped. Luke and Tread kept going. I walked quickly to catch up to them.

“I kind of thought that when I stopped, you’d stop, too.” I said. “Pretty universal thing to do. It was a signal that I wanted to talk about something really important.”

Luke stopped, and Tread sat. I was way more impressed with Tread than Luke.

“If it’s the day you’re thinking about, and it must be because I can’t remember sitting with the overachievers another time, I needed some help,” Luke said. “With a project. For school. You know, classes and all.”

“Why Ray? Of all people, I’d think he’d be the last guy you’d go to.”