Me & Jack (3 page)

chapter 5

A
pparently, I wasn't safe enough with Jack. Dad hired a lady to come in. “Just a couple of times a week,” he said. “Besides, aren't you tired of pizza?”

Millie slipped Jack a treat the first time she came over. That alone made me like her, but when she said his eyes were wise and knowing, that clinched it for me.

Today we were taking Jack to the vet's. I couldn't wait to find out what kind of dog he was. Going through our encyclopedias, I found all kinds of special breeds, but I didn't see one dog that looked like Jack. He had to be something extra special.

“Something rare,” I said to Jack, roughing him up a little before I put the books away.

While we waited for Millie, I remembered the birch bark and went upstairs. The bark still held the curve of the tree trunk when I lifted it from my Pennsylvania shoe box. I grabbed a pencil and, using a book as a table, began to write on the inside of it. The pencil lead poked through the bark, so I ended up writing on real paper and sticking the bark in the envelope.

Dear Scott,

Pennsylvania is boring. I met one kid and one jerk. But the good news is I have a dog now. His name is Jack and he's a fast runner. Maybe you can visit and meet him.

I got this birch bark off a tree on the mountain I live on. I will try to get some more later.

Your friend,

Joshua

We walked out to the mailbox just as Millie pulled into the driveway.

“You ready?” she called out.

“Yep.” I swung open the door and Jack leaped in, scrabbling his front paws along the dash. He pranced on Millie's lap, turned his backside to her, and nearly whopped her with his tail.

“Hi, Jack!” Millie said, leaning to avoid getting hit. “One happy dog.”

I laughed. “Sure is.” I realized how lucky we were to get a lady who was not only nice, but who was a dog person as well.

Sitting on top of an exam table wasn't one of Jack's favorite things to do. He pedaled his legs and barked, trying to escape. The assistant told Millie and me to hold Jack down while she got the doctor.

“What do we have here?” Dr. Hart asked when he came in. That didn't sound like the kind of question you actually answer, so I didn't say anything. He walked around the table without taking his eyes off Jack. “Very unusual dog. Is he … what is he?”

“They didn't know at the pound,” I said, straining to keep Jack still. “I was hoping you'd know.”

Dr. Hart looked thoughtful. He leaned in and cupped Jack's head. “Hmm.” He spread Jack's eyes open, then looked at his teeth. “Hmm.”

“What do you think?” Millie asked.

Dr. Hart crinkled his eyebrows. “I don't know.” He scratched the back of Jack's ear. “Good musculature.” He turned to me and smiled. “Bet he's fast.”

“He's really fast.”

He looked at Jack. “He resembles a greyhound, but his ears aren't right, neither is his coloring. See the way his ears and the rims of his eyes are turning red? I've never seen that trait before.”

“Is he sick?” Millie asked.

“No!” Dr. Hart laughed. “You've got yourself a healthy, well-cared-for dog here. Alert, intelligent. About a year old, I'd say. But that blushing—that's unique.” He put the stethoscope up to Jack's chest. “I'll be darned if I know what kind of dog he is.”

On the way out of Dr. Hart's office, I saw a flyer for something called the American Dog Breeders Association. Picking it up, I read that the ADBA was a dog club for purebreds and their owners. It also said that dogs were good for people and that dogs had rights. I slipped the flyer into my pocket. Maybe they would know what kind of dog Jack was.

That night, Dad pulled out the roast that Millie had put in the oven before she left. Her cooking was almost as good as Mom's and definitely better than Dad's. Jack lay at my feet under the table, and when Dad wasn't looking, I slipped him a few chunks of meat. He thought it was good, too.

After supper, I made Dad get out Mom's Polaroid camera. That's a camera that makes pictures right when you take them. He snapped one of Jack all alone and then one of me and Jack together. The pictures rolled out of the camera and Dad was careful to hold them by the edges as he laid them on the table. At first, the picture is nothing except all black. But that's a trick the camera people have figured out. I stared at the black pictures and slowly, the black faded, colors seeped in, and before I knew it, I was looking at pictures of Jack and me.

“Unique.” Dr. Hart had used that word for Jack. Also “unusual” and “distinctive.” And not just his ears or his nose or his lips. “I've never seen dogs with eyes this color,” he'd said. “Amber.” The dictionary said amber was a dark orange-yellow, or a see-through yellowish-brownish color. To me, his eyes looked like jewels or tigereye marbles.

Before I went to bed, I wrote a letter to the American Dog Breeders Association and put Jack's picture in the envelope. I leaned the picture of me and Jack against the lamp on my bedside table. Jack was already stretched out on the bed. There was just enough room for me.

chapter 6

M
y arm felt sore the next morning from where Jack had laid his head most of the night. Dad smiled at me when I came into the kitchen. He was already having breakfast—cereal and orange juice.

When I sat at the table, I stretched my arms wide and accidentally knocked over the cereal box. Cheerios scattered onto the floor. Jack licked them up instantly. I looked at Dad and we both laughed.

When Dad asked me to get the paper for him, I stumbled over Jack on my way to the back door. The newspaper lay on the driveway by the garage. I opened the door, but before I could go out, Jack squeezed past my legs. He rushed down the steps and tore around the house.

“Jack! Jack!” I turned back into the kitchen. “Dad!”

Dad was already out of his chair. “What? Did he take off?”

I started to run, but Dad grabbed me and stepped onto the back porch. Putting two fingers in his mouth, he delivered an earsplitting whistle.

“Dad!” I tried to push around him. “That's not going to do it—we have to go get him!”

Another whistle, straight into my ear.

I pushed through and ran down the steps.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Put your shoes on.”

“Dad!”

He gave me the look.

It would be faster to listen to him than to argue, so I jumped on the porch and slid my feet into my sneakers. I rushed down the steps and around the house. I didn't see Jack anywhere. I faced the woods and held still … no telltale snap of leaves or branches.

Dad jogged up behind me, holding the leash in one hand. “Where did he go?”

“I don't know.” If he didn't go up, he must have gone down.

I started down the hill, not waiting for Dad. If he'd let me run after Jack immediately like I'd wanted to, we'd already know where Jack was. Now he was nowhere in sight.

Dad caught up to me as we reached the bottom of the street. Before, Jack and I had turned right, but I didn't see him that way now. I looked left. The left side had more houses and they were on both sides of the street. My heart sank. He could be anywhere.

“Right or left?” Dad asked.

“I think we—”

Just then I heard a commotion down the street to the left. Jack bounded out from behind someone's house. A lady followed after him banging two pot lids together.

“Jack!” I yelled. Dad whistled. Jack caught sight of us and ran toward me. His gait was easy, and his ears glowed. He planted his big front paws against my chest and then he jumped and danced around me. I ruffled his ears. “Jack! What were you doing?”

Dad handed me the leash. As I snapped it onto Jack's collar, Dad turned.

“Uh-oh,” he murmured.

Generally speaking, the words “uh-oh” are never followed by anything good. I stood up and looked at Dad. He stared in the direction the lady was coming. Then I saw his features rearrange into his air force face—the way he makes his face look when he's in full dress uniform. I stood a little straighter and tried to look like he did.

“Did you see what your dog did?” the lady yelled. Her head bobbed as she marched toward us. Her face was all pinched together. Each hand clutched a pot lid, as if she'd bang them like cymbals if we didn't answer properly. “Did you see what he did?”

“No, I'm sorry,” Dad said in a deep voice. “The dog was too fast for us this morning.” He stepped forward and offered his hand. “I'm Rich Reed. This is my son, Joshua.”

She put one lid under her arm and shook his hand. Then she smoothed her hair. It seemed like for a second she forgot what she was mad at. “Well, it's nice to meet you. I'm Sylvia Puchalski.” She took a breath. “I'm sorry to tell you this, but look at what your dog did.” She pointed down the street. I didn't see anything, just houses. And overturned garbage cans.

“Jack didn't do that!” I said.

She didn't even look at me, just kept her eyes on Dad. “Mine's knocked down, too,” she said, “and I caught him running through my flowers.” She pointed back to her yard. “And I don't mind telling you that I came right out after him. He was tearing up my irises and I—”

As if to prove her point, Jack jumped and pranced around my legs.

“I can see from here you have a beautiful garden, Sylvia,” Dad said in his rich voice.

“Well, thank you, I … thank you.”

Dad turned to me. “We'll take care of any damage the dog caused, right, Joshua?”

My jaw dropped. “But, Dad, Jack didn't—”

“Joshua!”

I almost rolled my eyes but caught myself. I looked down and scuffed my foot against the road. “I'm sorry about your flowers and your garbage cans.”

“We're both sorry,” Dad said. “And I'll have Joshua clean up the mess.”

I jerked my head up. That wasn't fair. But I didn't say anything.

Mrs. Puchalski seemed happy now. She told Dad she hoped he liked it here. She said she knew how hard it was to get started in a new place and if we needed anything to give her a call. She'd be the last person I'd call.

When she started back to her house, Dad waited a few seconds before heading toward ours. Jack leaped over the leash, tangling it around his legs. I bent down and unwrapped it. “Why do I have to clean up that lady's garbage?”

He let out a long sigh. “Because Jack knocked it down.”

“How do you know? She didn't see him do it.”

“Joshua, he came flying out of there.” His voice was low, like he didn't want anyone to hear. “Just pick up her garbage can and all the other ones he knocked down.”

I stopped. “What? That's not fair. Jack didn't do anything.”

“But he might have. Listen”—Dad glanced upward—“not everyone's happy to have an air force recruiter next door. We have to work extra hard to show them we're good neighbors, and that includes Jack.”

“Why wouldn't they want us as neighbors?” And what did the air force have to do with it?

We started walking again. “It's not really us.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It's just … a lot of boys have died in this war. A lot of people don't think we should be over there.”

I remembered that local boy the pastor mentioned.

“Do
you
think we should be over there?”

Dad started to say something but closed his mouth and shook his head. “I don't know,” he finally said. “But
we're here
, and we have to be extra-good neighbors. It's just the way things are, nothing personal.”

It sounded kind of personal to me.

“Don't forget about the trash cans.”

Yeah, I got it. Basically, I had to pick them up so people wouldn't be mad at us because Dad was a recruiter. That stunk. And it wasn't fair, either.

“C'mon, Jack,” I said. We ran ahead, all the way to the corner and partway up the hill before I needed to catch my breath. Dogs had rights, too, like the pamphlet had said. Besides, it didn't make sense—Jack couldn't have knocked down all those trash cans in such a short time, and plus I didn't hear any noise.

When we got into the house, I unhooked Jack, kicked off my shoes, and we shot upstairs to my room. After a few minutes, the stairs creaked with Dad's footsteps, and I heard the sounds of him getting ready.

Letting out a big breath, I sat beside Jack and looked directly at him. “You didn't knock down those trash cans, did you?” He did not look away and now I was sure of it—he was innocent. “I believe you,” I said.

I caught up to Dad in the kitchen. He had his blues on; that meant he was going out on a recruiting call today. When I was little, Dad seemed like a different man in his uniform, the same way Clark Kent does when he's Superman—like a hero. Even now the sight of Dad in his dress blues filled me with pride. Made me want to be strong like a hero, too. “Dad, Jack didn't—”

“Stop.” He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. “Just make it right.”

I couldn't believe he was making me do this.

“Joshua, I'm talking to you.”

I cocked my head. “Yes, sir.”

He sighed and his shoulders sagged. Dark circles ringed his eyes. “Look, I've got to go to work. I want you to pick up all that garbage and leave Jack here when you do it, okay?” He paused for a moment. I said nothing. “Okay, I'll be home at five thirty.” He stepped closer and ruffled my hair.

I watched him walk all the way to the station wagon, his head down.

I turned to Jack. “What a crummy day.” I sat on the floor and pulled on my shoes. “Listen, I have to leave you here so I can go pick up all that stupid garbage.”

Jack pushed his nose into my face, leaving a wet streak on my cheek. I laughed. “You're a good boy.” I patted the top of his head and slipped out the door.

The garbage was slimy and gross. Coffee grounds, broken egg shells with slimy egg stuff,
diapers.
The trash cans smelled like spoiled-rotten food and poop. My stomach lurched.

I had only a few more to do when I spotted a couple of kids coming my way on bikes. I bent my head down. Let them keep going. Suddenly, gravel crunched and flew through the air. I spun around.

Prater!

He'd almost skidded right into me. I straightened up, angry.

“Ha! Scared you!” He wore a dumpy blue shirt and that stupid wristband.

I wiped my hands on the back of my shorts. “No, you didn't.”

“Yeah, I did.” He snorted. “You jumped.”

Ray rode up beside us and stopped. His eyebrows pushed together as he looked around. “What are you doing?”

My face flushed. I was standing in a circle of wadded-up diapers. “I—”

“What do you think he's doing?” Prater said. “He's looking for something to eat.”

The heat deepened in my face. I looked from Prater to Ray. “My dad said I have to pick these up.” I waved toward the other trash cans.

“Why?” Ray asked.

Shaking my head, I rolled my eyes at the unfairness of it all. “Some lady said that Jack knocked these over, but he—”

“Who's Jack?” Prater interrupted. “Don't tell me you've got a brother.”

Ray leaned forward on his bike. “Jack's his dog, remember?”

“Oh, yeah—Rudolph,” Prater said, jerking his head back. “Where is your stupid dog, anyway?”

“I don't have a stupid dog.”

“Well, then, I guess you're stupid because you're the one who's picking up all this junk.” Before I could even think of a response, he turned to Ray. “Come on, Ray, let's go.”

“Hang on,” Ray said, then turned to me. “What are you doing after? You want to come with us?”

Prater stepped between Ray and me. “He can't. My mom already made plans for us.” He looked at me. “See you around, kid.” He rode off slowly. Then, like Ray was his own personal property, “C'mon, Ray.”

Ray glanced at him, and turned back to me. “I guess I better be going,” he said.

“Yeah.”

He lifted his foot to the pedal and turned his handlebars. “We're going to shoot targets tonight. Want to come?”

Dad had a big thing against guns; he believed in fighting for our country, but he didn't believe in killing for sport. Neither did I. “What kind of targets?”

“Like paper targets. Alan's dad lets us shoot in their backyard, but only after he's home from work. You want to come?”

“I don't know.” I'd never held a gun before. Sighing, I glanced Prater's way. He was now halfway down the block, circling lazily in the street. I didn't want to be anywhere he was, but I did want to be friends with Ray. I'd already turned down two invitations: playing basketball when I first met them, and hanging out now because of this trash. If I turned down another invitation, it might be the last. “Where does he live?”

“Not far. Where do you live?”

I pointed to my street. “Up there. The only house on top of the hill.” Prater began to ride back to us. “You better go,” I said, gesturing my head toward Prater.

Ray turned and shouted, “I'm coming!” Then to me, “I'll come by after supper and get you.”

Prater closed in on his bike. I started picking up the garbage; I wanted Ray to leave before Prater made his way back and opened his big, fat mouth. “See you later.”

“See ya.” Ray pushed off.

Okay, I had just made plans to engage the enemy on his own turf. As I bent to the next trash can, I watched Ray and Prater pedal down a couple of blocks and around the curve. Finishing quickly, I ran home. I couldn't wait to wash my hands.