Mountain Dog (9 page)

The women wear colorful dresses,

and somehow, the worried men

manage to look strong

and helpless

at the same time.

The search goes on and on,

but this time, Gabe isn't the hero.

A helicopter pilot makes the find,

spotting the lost boy from midair.

Exhausted but happy, Tío assures me

that search and rescue is teamwork,

not individual

glory.

Still, as I think about how hard

Gabe tried, I can't help but wonder

if SAR dogs ever feel

discouraged.

Lately, my mind is so full

of questions

that there doesn't seem to be room

for answers.

Wondering and wishing are all

I can manage at Cowboy Church,

where I try and try to pray

for Mom …

but end up feeling

like wondering and wishing

are better than seeing her

or opening her hopelessly

angry letters.

Now I know

how elephants must feel

in between their lively

jumping dreams

while they're awake

and limited

to plodding.

 

30

GABE THE DOG

MY WISHFUL NOSE

I'm not discouraged, just tired

and restful.

My nose has wishful moods

when the nostrils imagine sniffing

adventurous smells that I can't quite name

with my dog-words.

Tony, you look wishful too.

Does your boy nose dream

of exploring wild scent trails

in unknown air?

 

31

TONY THE BOY

DOG YEARS

Summer is the best cure

for worries. I'm so tired and relaxed

from swimming, hiking, playing

dog games, and learning bear facts

that I can almost sleep

straight through one whole

nightmare-free night.

Maybe that's why my dog nose blog

grows more confident

and number-rich

each day,

as I learn that people shed 40,000

skin cells per hour, creating a trail

of scent that a long dog nose

can follow, using all 230 million

scent receptors—100,000 times more

sniffing ability than the amount

of smell-skill in a short human nose.

It sounds like magic,

but it's science.

If I want to study wildlife biology,

or forestry, or veterinary medicine,

I'll need plenty of courage

to explore the tangled

wilderness of math.

So I try to copy Gabe's way of facing

each day with the energy of a dog's

excitement about work-play.

When I hide for SAR dog practice,

I notice the way all dogs love

adventure, but they also need to know

what to expect. Border collies

try to herd me, German shepherds

guard me, and Labs like Gabe

just love to fetch me.

I'm still trying to figure out how

playful dogs turn into such fiercely

loyal Rescue Beasts

while having so much fun.

Is there a mathematical formula

to explain generosity?

Tío and the other volunteer

SAR dog handlers are just as amazing.

They have normal jobs in forests, shops,

and offices, but as soon as they reach

a place last seen, they start to seem

like people from a different century—

a time when anyone could get lost

in the wild, and everyone always

joined the search posse.

I want to be just like them.

I crave that brave combination

of beastly toughness

and rugged kindness.

It's like moss on a boulder,

hard and soft at the same time,

the same blend I'll need if I'm ever

going to be a smart animal doctor

who knows how to cure

wounded dogs.

With thoughts of college and vet school,

I start seeing regular school

as important.

The new semester is a challenge

I almost feel ready to face.

Same classroom, same teacher,

same friendly students,

but I hardly recognize the girls.

They look a lot older, and they act

all giggly—even Gracie, who has grown

supertall, weirdly shy, and surprisingly

pretty.

But girls aren't my only confusion.

On September 15, the first day

of Hispanic Heritage Month,

the teacher asks me to speak

to the whole class about my family

and their origins.

But I wasn't born on the island.

I'm American.

I barely know any Spanish.

How can I tell quaint, folksy tales

about fiestas, feasts, cousins,

and grandmas.…

I won't do it.

I don't belong.

Not here.

Or anywhere.

I can't belong.

Ever.

When I refuse to speak,

the teacher says she understands,

but then Gracie jumps in

and invites Tío to talk in my place.

He agrees, but only after asking me

if it's okay. I do mind. I mind a lot,

but I don't want to hurt his feelings,

so I keep my anxiety

secret.

I find myself listening with laser-sharp ears

as Tío tells the whole class about his life.

My eyes feel blurry, and my mind

has left the room. All I can think about

is Mom hungry, Mom scared,

Mom on a raft, drifting.…

Why didn't I ever ask about

her childhood?

If I ask now, will she answer

and if she does, will her answers

be honest?

My birthday is coming soon—maybe

that will be the perfect chance to try

to get to know more

about Mom's weird past …

but on the day when I finally

turn twelve, there's no card or call,

no proof that I ever had a mother.

No prison visit either,

but that's my choice.

Tío bakes a carrot cake, and gives me

a brand-new laptop, and the warmest

hug

of my life.

Then B.B. gives me a grinning

photo of Gabe, a picture that brings tears

of happiness to my eyes, but I don't

actually cry, because Gracie chooses

that moment to give me a silly poem

about the clumsy way

baby elephants play

while they're learning

how to control all 40,000

clunky muscles

in their trunkies.

After that, we sing and howl off-key.

It's the first time anyone has ever

called my birthday

happy.

This story of turning twelve will be great,

when I tell it on my dog nose blog,

with my new laptop, using plenty

of numbers that no longer remind me

of winners and losers

in long-ago fights.

When I sit down to write,

I say that Gabe is exactly half my age,

but he's also 6 times 7
=
42,

old and wise

in dog years—almost ancient—

but age doesn't stop him

from celebrating. All through

my whole birthday, he's the one

who helps me laugh

by grinning

as we gobble

messy frosting.

If only birthdays could last

forever. But they don't last.

Nothing lasts. Suddenly,

the forest

is no longer

peaceful.

 

32

GABE THE DOG

EXPLOSIONS

Each boom rhymes

with the smell

of danger.

Worse than thunder.

Worse than yelling.

I would hide in the closet

forever

if my Leo didn't keep patting me

and reminding me

that it's just the same

mean noise

we hear

every year.

 

33

TONY THE BOY

TRAIL NAMES

Hunting season opens

with gunfire at dawn.

Frightened deer hide

in our vegetable garden.

A desperate bear scratches

at the cabin door.

At first Gabe hides, but then

he goes crazy with fear, barking

and growling. He sounds like

a pit bull. He sounds

like Mom.

Gunshots and snarls

bring old nightmares

rushing back.

Why do I always

have to start over

again

and again

struggling

to be free

of the past?

Tío shakes me awake to say

that he's leaving, and at first

I assume he means forever …

but it's just another call-out

for a search.

As usual, I go with my uncle

to a safe base camp at a trailhead,

even though this time, the forest

is scary.

Hunting season means danger

for searchers, who have to keep

their dogs close, and make noise

with whistles, to warn hunters

who might otherwise mistake

any movement

for a deer

or a bear.

When I find out that Tío and Gabe

have to search for a lost hunter

who went out with six hounds,

I'm furious. Hunting doesn't

seem fair, to either the dogs

or the bear.

Bear hounds are trained to follow

a scent, running so fast and so far

that they often get lost. Even dogs

get mixed up when a chase is swift

and frenzied. Dog noses are smart,

but not perfect.

Bear hounds are supposed to chase

a bear up a tree, where it's easy

to shoot. This time, one of the hounds

got lost, and then the frantic hunter

lost his way too, running around,

trying to find his missing dog.

Now, the hunter's wife

is at base camp, crying

and complaining

about his dangerous

way of enjoying

the outdoors.

I look around at B.B., Gracie,

the sheriffs, and volunteers.

Everyone looks busy and useful

except me.

All I can think about is the hound.

I feel a lot more troubled by the thought

of a helpless dog than by the image

of a lost hunter

who still has his gun.

Instead of waiting by the crowded

base camp table, I start wandering

with a flashlight, hoping to see

canine paw prints.

Still hoping, I roam farther

and farther, first on the main trail,

then narrower paths that fade

until suddenly, I know

I've messed up.

Now I'm lost too.

There's no trail at all.

I'm surrounded by wildness.

That's how it happens—

one path leads to another.

So you choose, you walk,

you choose again,

and pretty soon,

there's no

turning back.

I don't have a GPS, or even a map

and compass. I hardly know anything

about navigation by starlight.

I don't have a two-way radio

or my cell phone, which probably

wouldn't even get a signal

way out here.

So I can't call for help.

I'm stuck waiting. I know the rules.

A lost person should stay in one place,

hug a tree, avoid wandering

in wider and wider

aimless

circles.…

Instead, I panic and run

until I'm sliding down

a long, steep

s

  l

   o

     p

      e

scrambling

to keep from falling

over a cliff.

This is stupid.

I should know better.

I might not always listen

to every boring grown-up rule,

but I am old enough to have

common sense.

So I make myself stop.

I stand motionless,

waiting.

The forest is crowded with SAR dogs

and searchers. If B.B. and the other

ground pounders don't find me,

then Gabe and Tío surely will.

Won't they?

I sit with my back against

an incense cedar tree,

where the red bark smells

like the smoky air

around those praying women

in the prison yard—thick air

clouded with incense

and gloom.