Strider (2 page)

Back to yesterday. There are so many places our moms won't let us hang around, like the Frostee Freeze and the video arcade, that we headed for the beach, not for any special reason. The beach was just a place to go. The damp air gave us goose bumps below our cutoffs. Fog dripping off the eucalyptus trees made them smell like old tomcats.

The beach was so gray and chilly the only person around was a rugged old man we call Mr. President because he is always saying if he were president he would make a few changes in this country. He patrols beaches and parks, dragging two gunnysacks, one for broken glass and beer bottles, the other for aluminum cans, so kids won't cut their feet. Some people think he's nutty because he lives in an
old bread truck, but we don't. Sometimes we help him.

At the foot of the steps to the beach, beside the seawall, a dog was sitting in the soft sand. He was tan with a few white spots and a white mark in the center of his face. He looked strong for a medium-sized dog.

“Hi, dog,” I said and thought of my ex-dog Bandit and the fun we used to have before the divorce, when Mom got me and Dad got Bandit.

This dog looked worried and made little whimpering noises.

Mr. President came dragging his gunnysacks through the sand. “Dog's been sittin' there since yesterday,” he said. “No collar, no license, no nothin'. Just sits there in sorrow.”

“Come on, fella,” I said to the dog and patted my knee.

The dog didn't move. I scratched his chest where Bandit liked to be scratched. This dog looked up at me with his ears laid back and the saddest look I have ever seen on a dog's face. If dogs could cry, this dog would be crying hard.

“Come on, dog,” said Barry. The dog wagged his docked tail. It wasn't a happy wag. It was an anxious wag. Dogs can say a lot with their tails, or what people let them keep of their tails. If he still had a tail, it would be between his legs.

“Seems like somebody told him to stay, so he's staying,” said Mr. President. “If he sits much longer, that dog jailer will come along and haul him off to the dog bastille.”

“Come on, boy,” I coaxed. The dog didn't budge.

“If I were running this country, I would hang everyone who dumps animals,” said Mr. President and went back to picking up beer bottles people leave on the beach.

Barry and I slogged through the dry sand to the wet sand, both of us hoping the dog would follow, but he didn't. I couldn't forget the look on that dog's face. I know what it feels like to be left behind, so I probably have the same look on my face when Dad and Bandit drop in to see me and then drive off, leaving me behind.

When we reached the water, Barry said, “Remember that movie Dad took us to that began with all those guys in track suits running through the waves at the edge of the beach?”

I got the idea. We both pulled off our shoes and socks and began to run up and down the beach, splashing through the little waves that crawled around our feet. The water just about froze our toes. As we ran, I could almost hear the movie sound track.

When we began to pant, we pretended we were running in slow motion the way the movie showed the actors. All the time I
thought about that sad dog waiting for someone who didn't come, maybe was never going to come. People can be pretty mean sometimes.

Suddenly the dog came racing across the sand and began to run along with us. We speeded up, and so did he.

“Good boy, Strider,” I said, no longer playing a part in a movie. I guess I called him Strider because there is a track club called the Bayside Striders, and Strider seemed like a good name for a running dog.

When we reached the shoes and socks we had left on the beach, Strider shook himself and slunk, drooping, back to the place by the seawall where we had first seen him. He looked miserable and guilty.

“Poor old Strider,” said Barry. “Something's sure bothering him.” I wasn't surprised when Barry called the dog Strider. We usually agree.

“Let's take him home,” I said as I tried to wipe the sand from between my toes with my socks. “Maybe we could find his owner before the animal control officer gets him.”

When we got our shoes and damp socks on our sandy feet, we called, coaxed, and whistled, but Strider wouldn't budge. He just looked worried and confused, as if he wanted to follow but knew he shouldn't. Strider can't talk, but he sure can act.

The sun was coming out. So were surfers,
who were struggling into wet suits beside their vans. We asked, but no one had ever seen the dog before.

We gave up and walked to my shack because it is closer than Barry's house. Walking in wet sandy socks wasn't much fun.

Oops. Here comes Mom. I'll pretend I'm asleep. I didn't mean to write a novel. More tomorrow.

Writing all this, I don't feel so lonely at night, and when I am busy, I forget to listen for funny noises.

To continue, Mom still wasn't home from class when Barry and I got back from the beach. We sat on the bathroom floor with our feet in the shower to wash sand from our toes. We didn't say much.

“I bet Strider's hungry,” said Barry finally.

“And thirsty,” I said.

We raced back to the beach with a couple of hot dogs (sorry, Mom), a bottle of water, and a bowl, feeling as if Strider was going to be hauled off to the gas chamber if we didn't get there in time.

The dog was still there! He slurped water, gulped hot dogs, and looked at us as if we had
saved his life. Maybe whatever he has been through is what people mean when they talk about a dog's life.

Barry and I tried to coax Strider to follow us. We didn't touch, we just coaxed. We could tell he was thinking about what he should do, and finally he made a decision. He took a few steps toward us, and a few more, and then he was following us.

Mr. President came along dragging his gunnysacks. “A gentle deed in a naughty world,” was all he said.

“What are we going to do with him?” Barry asked on the way back to my place.

“Keep him,” I said and remembered how Mom says, “Leigh, always do the right thing,” so I added, “just until we phone the SPCA to see if anybody has asked for him.”

“Nobody who tells a dog to stay and then leaves him is going to phone the SPCA,” said Barry, but admitted I was right.

The lady at the SPCA said no one had inquired about a dog of Strider's description, but wouldn't we like a companion for him? She took our telephone number, just in case, but didn't seem hopeful, which pleased us.

Strider, after sniffing around the shack, flopped down on our thrift-shop rug and slept as if he hadn't slept for a week. Barry and I sat on the couch staring at him. Even if Mom
would let me keep Strider until school starts, I knew there was no way I could have him for keeps when we are both away so much. Besides, there was our landlady, Mrs. Smerling, to think of. Mom says I mustn't refer to her as an old bat, even if she is. When we moved in, it seems to me she said something about no pets. We felt lucky she didn't say no boys.

“If nobody claims him, who gets him?” Barry asked the question that had been eating at me.

I really wanted that dog. Wanted him? I needed that dog.

“Would your mom and dad let you keep a dog?” I asked hoping Barry would say no.

Barry shrugged. “We've got everything else running around the house, and we're out of dogs right now.”

Strider twitched in his sleep. Sliding off the couch, I petted him gently. I didn't care if that dog barked, bit, chewed up slippers, or chased cats, I loved him and somehow I had to keep him.

“Hey!” said Barry so suddenly that Strider opened his eyes and lifted his head.

“It's all right, boy,” I said. He relaxed.

“We could have joint custody,” said Barry. “You keep him nights, we both have him days, and when school starts, we can leave him at our house because we have a fenced yard. After school, he would belong to both of us.”

“And we can split the cost of dog support!” I was getting excited. “But what about when you go down to Los Angeles to visit your real mom?”

Barry made a face because he likes living with his dad and Mrs. Brinkerhoff more than he likes visiting his real mother. He said, “He'll be all yours for a month, but you could still park him in our yard when you can't be with him. My folks wouldn't care.”

Here comes Mom. This is one night I'm not going to pretend to be asleep.

When Mom opened the door, I held my breath while she looked at Strider, who raised his head and wagged his stub of tail.

“Who have we here?” She looked tired, but she smiled a half-smile. “A Queensland heeler, I see. Part wild Australian dingo and part shepherd. I used to watch them working cattle when I was a little girl. Good ranch dogs.”

The trouble, I could see, was we didn't have a ranch or a herd of cattle. “His name is Strider,” I said. “Barry and I have joint custody of him.” Then I explained what had happened and what we planned to do.

Mom smiled a whole smile, but I could see she was thinking. “Leigh,” she said seriously, “no apartment would let us keep a part-time dog, and heelers are strong, active dogs. Which
shall it be? A better place to live if we can find one, or a part-time dog?”

This was a hard question. I wanted half of Strider (since I couldn't have all of Strider) more than anything in the world, but it wasn't fair to have Mom sleep on a couch in the living room forever. On the other hand, so far no one with an apartment we can afford has been willing to rent to someone with a boy my age. When Mom applies, they say they will call back, but they never do. Apartment managers seem to expect all boys to write graffiti on the walls, push drugs, or start rock bands. Finally I said to Mom, “I'll sleep on the couch.”

“Oh well, I'm used to it,” she said, “and I don't want to wake you up when I come in late. You need a companion evenings while I'm at work. Yes, you may have joint custody if you boys can work it out and Mrs. Smerling doesn't object.”

“Mom!” I was horrified. “You don't expect me to ask her, do you?”

Mom said, “Let's just wait and see what happens. And remember, Leigh, you must always keep your dog on a leash. A quick, strong dog like Strider could easily knock someone down.”

I vowed his leash would never leave our hands when we were on the street.

I have a really great mom. Now all I have to worry about is our landlady. Oh well, Mrs.
Smerling has put up with having me around for a couple of years, so maybe she won't object to a half-time dog.

On the other hand, she might use Strider as an excuse for raising our rent—if she lets him stay.

Barry's parents said the same thing about our having joint custody of Strider. “If you boys can work it out.” Why do grownups think kids can't figure things out? I wonder if Dad would say the same thing. He hasn't been around for a long time.

Barry had a collar and leash left over from some old dog. We split the cost of Strider's license and shots. (There went a lot of floor mopping.) The vet said he was about three years old and in good shape. We decided Barry would hold Strider's leash whenever we came near my place so Mrs. Smerling would think he was Strider's owner.

I have learned one thing about our dog. We can never tell him to sit or stay. If we do, he practically goes to pieces. He gets down on his
belly and crawls toward us, whimpering as if to say, “Please don't make me obey those words.” Otherwise, he is a good, well-trained dog. I wonder how his former owner felt about giving him up. For some reason he must not have been able to keep him any longer and hoped someone would adopt him.

For a whole week now, Barry and I have had fun with high-energy Strider. We began by walking him. “Heel,” I ordered to see if he would obey. He did, but he nipped our heels to make us go faster. We began to jog. He nipped again, so we began to run. We ran along Ocean View Boulevard where the pinky-purple flowers that cover the ground are so bright they almost hurt our eyes. Below, little waves nibbled at the rocks. Strider gained on us until his leash was almost pulling my arm out of its socket.

Finally we stopped to pant beside a faucet where people wash sand off their feet. “Maybe Strider's pretending we're a herd of cattle,” said Barry when he could talk again. Strider caught a drink of water by turning his head sideways under the faucet.

Mr. President came driving his bread truck down the boulevard. He drew up beside us and called out, “So you saved the dog from the vile blows and buffets of the world, to say nothing of the animal control officer.”

“We have joint custody!” I called back.

“May fortune smile on your agreement!” Mr. President called out and then drove on.

“I guess that's a fancy way of saying ‘If you can work it out.'” Barry sounded cross.

When we returned to our shack, Mrs. Smerling was sitting on her front steps drinking a beer out of an aluminum can. Barry, who quickly took Strider's leash, was full of advice: “If you ask (pant) if you can keep a dog (pant), she'll say no. (Pant pant.) It's easy to say no. (Pant.) Act as if (pant) you're sure a dog (pant)
is okay with her (pant pant) in case she asks questions.”

I said, “Hi, Mrs. Smerling (pant pant),” as we approached her. Strider lifted his leg to mark his territory. Barry took hold of Strider's collar as if our dog were his, one hundred percent. This was the smart thing to do, but somehow it made me uncomfortable.

Mrs. Smerling took a swig from the can before she said, “Hello there, Leigh. I see you have a couple of friends.”

“That's right, Mrs. Smerling,” I said as we walked past her.

It is hard to tell when our landlady is being nice. At least she isn't fussy about Strider lifting his leg on her shrubbery because she never prunes or waters it. However, on the first of
the month, at 8
A.M.
sharp, she comes down the path in her bathrobe with her thong sandals flapping and calls out, “Mrs. Botts! Mrs. Botts!” As soon as Mom opens the door, she says, “Your rent is due,” as if she suspects we can't pay it. Mom dreads the first of the month because the old—oops!—Mrs. Smerling might raise our rent, which is already high.

Inside, Barry and I flopped down on the couch. We were hot and sweaty, but we felt great. A running dog is a great dog to own. I mean half-own.

Strider went to his water dish and slurped. Then he rolled over on his back, which meant he trusted us. We both scratched his belly. Being trusted by a dog, especially a dog that has good reason for not trusting humans, is a nice feeling.