Mountain Dog (7 page)

completely

confusingly

failed.

The teacher smiles and tells me

she'll give extra credit

for a cricket-song essay

or a poem

about tree rings.

Tío must have talked to her.

He probably told her about the fights

and the bets

and the sad way I was always

the one who had to count dollars

and report the numbers

to Mom.

Dogs that didn't bring

a profit

lost a lot more

than money.

 

18

GABE THE DOG

DOG TRUTHS

At night, Tony lies awake,

stroking my head

and whispering

our

summer plans.

All I care about is the
our
word.

As long as we're together

time will feel round

and safe.

 

19

TONY THE BOY

UNO

Mountain chores are easy.

No decisions. No numbers.

No grown-up

responsibilities.

All I have to do is help my uncle

plant his garden,

pick fruit and vegetables,

chop firewood,

and cook berries

so that we can surprise

hungry thru-hikers

with fresh-baked pies,

a gift that leaves us chuckling,

because each adventurer

from Sweden, Canada, or Chile

can devour a whole pie

and still look hungry.

Cowboys on horseback

aren't starving, but they are

full of gratitude each time we drop off

a pie while they're herding cattle

up to high, peaceful meadows

that look like smooth green lakes.

Old cowboys help Tío teach me

wilderness lore. I learn that beaver houses

are built of sticks,

while muskrat lodges

are mostly mud.

I learn that fence lizards have smooth

blue bellies but newts on this mountain are warty red,

and I memorize natural patterns,

like the upside-down
V

in the paw print

of a red fox—scientific name:

Vulpes vulpes
.

I love it when life makes some sort

of orderly, organized sense, so:

I

     learn

           that

                rabbits

                     bite

                          twigs

at a clean forty-five-degree angle

while deer leave

shaggy

frayed tips

and porcupines shred the bark

but bears reach way up high

to rip claw marks

in tree trunks

maybe to show off

their

height

so that other bears

will respect them.

Summer arrives. I've passed math

and I know a lot about wilderness

and I feel

almost

as tall

and tough

as a bear,

but I don't have to be strong

around B.B., who lets me act young,

silly, funny, clumsy, and small

during my swimming lessons

with Gabe in a quiet pond

beneath a waterfall—

so cool

on hot days!

B.B.'s idea of a summer sport

is romping across a green meadow

with Gabe, and the crafts she shows me

are just animal and bird statues

that we make from all sorts of stuff

we find—pinecones, acorns, pebbles,

fossils, arrowheads, and feathers.

When I admit that I miss

writing online articles, B.B. helps me

start a blog, using a goofy, grinning photo

of Gabe as my canine coauthor.

At first, I want to call the blog

something complicated and scientific,

but then I decide that a simple name

like Dog Nose Notes

will make readers curious.

So I start writing SAR dog thoughts

as I imagine Gabe would write them

if he could: When you get lost

in the wondrous woods,

stay in one place. Don't wander.

Keep your scent trail simple,

because each roaming step you take

makes it harder for a dog's nose

to find you.

I even write about the sad part

of searching. Hardly any modern people

know how to stay alive in the wild

for more than a few desperate days.

If a lost hiker isn't found quickly,

Gabe has to use his cadaver dog training.

Finding bodies instead of survivors.

Tío calls it the monstrous side

of the Rescue Beast. Searchers

have to keep searching

even when they know

that too much time

has passed.

If I ever get lost, I'll want to survive,

so I beg Tío to let me tag along

when he teaches apprentice handlers

how to prepare for their big, scary

UNO.

In Spanish,
uno
just means one,

but in the daring language

of search-and-rescue volunteers,

it means “unexpected night out.”

SAR dog handlers learn to survive

without a sleeping bag or a fire.

No easy warmth. No cooked meals.

Just a little imagination

and a lot of courage.

So I pretend I'm a real searcher,

trapped by wild weather.

I make a shelter of leafy branches,

and I reinvent the sleeping bag

by stuffing pine needles into a trash bag.

I eat miner's lettuce, berries,

and cattail shoots sweetened

with sugar-pine sap.

It's eerie spending a cold night

outdoors, close to Gabe but so far

from people. Well, not too far—Tío

is camped really close by,

and even though it's hard to find

a cell phone signal out here,

he has a satellite phone

for emergencies,

and we have two-way radios

so he can call to ask if I'm okay,

and I can answer, first saying copy,

to let him know that I hear him,

then, over when I'm through,

promising that I'm fine.

I feel like I'm in an adventure movie,

talking like a bush pilot

or an explorer!

While Gabe and I are out

in the darkness, I start to wonder

if he wants to leave and run back

to Tío, but he's a generous dog.

He takes care of me.

He stays close, snuggling

to keep both of us safe

and warm.

It's easy to sense

how divided

a dog

feels

when he loves

two people

and longs to be loyal

to both

but he knows

he has to choose

only one.

 

20

GABE THE DOG

SMELLY RHYMES

The scent of a whole night with Tony, far away from my Leo,

almost rhymes with an aroma of fear, but it's also a fragrance

of excitement, so I stay awake

until I sleep

and then I dream

the scent

of running

a wild smell that rhymes

with home.

 

21

TONY THE BOY

WALKING WITH BEARS

On summer mornings

out in the fragrant woods,

I learn to identify

the musky stench

of a black-bear den

in a hollow tree

but the wildest drifts

of clear mountain air

carry sounds

not just scent

an eerie cry, a screech, a moan—

soaring eagle

or slinking ghost?

It could be the protective cry

of a mountain lion mother

calling to her cubs.…

or La Gritona, La Llorona,

screaming woman, weeping woman,

a spirit from Tío's campfire tales

about a mother who shrieks

because her children are lost.

Mountain lions and spooky myths

are noisy, but studying bears

is mostly a matter

of silence.

When B.B. takes me out to help

with her research, poor Gabe

can't go with us, because even

the biggest bears love peace

and quiet. They run away

from barking dogs.

On my first day of wildlife biology,

we find ourselves face-to-face

with an adult male black bear

whose shaggy brown hair

makes me wonder why he's called

a black bear. B.B. explains

that they can be reddish

or light or dark. They can be

the same brown as grizzlies,

only smaller and a lot less

aggressive.

The bear points his long nose

and gives a soft woof, a warning

that sounds like a funny cross

between a sneeze and a bark.

We follow at a distance as he shuffles

from tree to tree, scratching roots

and gobbling

squirmy ant larvae.

B.B. speaks to the bear calmly,

advising him not to worry yet,

because hunting season won't start

until September.

Hunting? I can't believe that any

modern person would kill a bear.

Why? Are they hungry enough to need

bear meat, or is it a so-called sport

like a dogfight? Why do some people

keep trying to prove their strength?

If Mom was a hunter,

would she kill the world's

last bear?

Remembering my life before forests—

before wildlife and a gentle dog,

and gentle people—

I start to feel

so lonely

that I have to shove memories

of my old life

away

replacing them with B.B.'s scientific

attention to detail as she shows me

the colors of bear scat—that's a biologist's

way of saying
poop
. Blue scat means a bear

might have munched elderberries. Purple

could be from wild blackberries, and red

might be manzanita.

That evening, I post a Dog Nose blog entry

about bear behavior, along with a list

of wild foods. Blue and purple berries

are often safe, but white and yellow

are usually risky. There aren't any rules

for red. Wild strawberries are fine,

but some red berries are deadly.

Some things in life just can't be

predicted.

The subject of safety catches my interest,

so I do some research, then post a list

of foods that can poison dogs:

grapes, raisins, onions, garlic,

macadamia nuts, chocolate.

Gabe is called a chocolate Lab

only because his rich brown color

is warm and happy, not because

it would be fine if you gave him