Strider (3 page)

Time goes fast these days. Barry and I begin each morning by running with Strider. On the mornings I mop for Katy, Barry holds Strider's leash and waits for me. Katy says we have an interesting custody arrangement if we can make it work, and she gives us samples of whatever she is preparing for a party. Strider enjoys chicken livers wrapped in bacon.

One day after our run, when I was reading and Barry was pretending to order expensive camping gear from catalogs, he ran across something called a “dog posture dish.” The catalog explained the importance of a dog's skeletal alignment and showed a picture of a dog standing up eating from dishes set on a platform so the dog didn't have to bend down.

Barry and I thought this was funny. “Strider,
old boy, how's your skeletal alignment?” I asked. Strider, who has a straight, strong back, looked interested.

“You know, that's not a bad idea,” said Barry. “Let's go up to my place and build him a posture dish out of Dad's scrap lumber.” We fastened Strider's leash to his collar and raced up the hill, where we sawed and hammered until we produced a workable stand for Strider's dishes. I lugged it down the hill, and now Strider seems pleased to eat standing up with his spine aligned.

Another day when I was reading and Barry was studying his catalogs, Strider, looking bored, wandered around the shack.

“Too bad he can't read, too,” Barry remarked.

“Great idea,” I said. “Let's teach him.”

Barry was doubtful, but I reasoned that if Strider could read words he didn't like to hear, he might not get so upset when we told him to sit or stay. I printed
SIT
on one piece of paper and
STAY
on another, and we went to work. We held up
SIT
and pushed down on Strider's hindquarters to make him sit. It took a while, but he finally caught on.
STAY
was harder. Barry held up the card. I went into the kitchen. Strider followed because that is where I feed him. I led him back. We went through the whole thing again until finally, after a couple of days, Strider caught on or gave in, I'm not
sure which. Now I carry two pieces of paper with the magic words in my hip pocket whenever I take Strider out. They might come in handy.

Mom thinks teaching a dog to read is funny. Maybe it is, but Barry and I had a lot of fun doing it. Maybe someday I could run a school for teaching dogs to read. (Joke.) Too bad Boyd Henshaw didn't think of this when he wrote
Ways to Amuse a Dog
, which used to be my favorite book.

Tomorrow Barry has to fly down to what he calls Los Smogland with two of his little sisters to visit their real mother and stepfather. He will be gone for a month, so I was invited over for a farewell dinner.

Mr. Brinkerhoff, who works in heavy construction—highways and stuff like that—came home and said, “Glad to see you, Leigh. With so many women around, us men have to stick together.” That made me feel good. He also invited Strider into the house, which made me, but not the girls' cats, feel even better. I showed the little sisters how Strider could read. They were impressed by his intelligence and printed
ROLL OVER
on a paper, but he ignored them. The oldest girl said he had a reading problem.

The part of the Brinkerhoff house I like best is the spaghetti wall. To see if the spaghetti is cooked enough, the family take turns throwing a strand at a wall in the kitchen. If the spaghetti sticks, it is done; if it slides to the floor, it needs to cook longer. When enough spaghetti has stuck to the wall, they spray-paint over it and start again. The wall reminds me of modern art I have seen in books at the library.

The Brinkerhoffs invited me to take a turn. My strand stuck! I know it is silly, but having my spaghetti stick to the wall made me feel good, as if I had accomplished something really important. Maybe that's what my future should be—throwing spaghetti for one of those plants that freezes Italian dinners for supermarkets.

We all sat down at the big round table to a meal of spaghetti and meatballs and a huge bowl of green salad full of avocado, cheese, and bits of salami. The littlest girl sat in a high chair and ate with her fingers and smeared tomato sauce all over her face and in her hair. Things like that don't bother Mrs. Brinkerhoff. Sometimes I wish Mom were more like Mrs. Brinkerhoff. Not all the time, just once in a while.

The girls told stupid riddles and screamed with laughter while Barry and I exchanged looks that said we were too grown-up for such
childish jokes. Mr. Brinkerhoff gave Strider a meatball which he gulped down. I slipped him another. Mom doesn't allow me to feed Strider at the table when she's home.

I was sorry when it was time to leave. “So long, Barry,” I said as I snapped Strider's leash in place. We were outside, standing by the fence. “Have fun down there in Los Smogland.”

“Yeah.” Barry sounded gloomy. “So long, and good luck in hiding Strider from Mrs. Smerling.” He stroked Strider's ears as if he didn't want to part with him.

I thought, Strider is in my custody for a whole month. Not joint custody.
My
custody.

Strider has been mine for a whole week! I brush him, wrestle with him, and we run a lot to avoid Mrs. Smerling. I always wave to Mr. President when I see him, and think of the day Barry and I found an abandoned dog. We run a little farther each day. Now we go around the Point, where I can take Strider off his leash and where we can hear sea lions bark. Strider, who rarely barks, enjoys barking at sea lions.

On foggy mornings we have to time our run around the Point to avoid the blast of the foghorn. Once it caught us and nearly blew us off the road. I could actually feel the sound waves. Strider took off at top speed. I thought he was gone for good, but I finally found him behind a rock. He must remember because he always
speeds up as we pass the foghorn, even if the sun is shining.

One day, when we were cooling down along the beach, I found a perfectly good golf ball. When I poked around the kelp that had washed up, I found another. After that I picked up a golf ball or two every day, washed them, packed them in egg cartons, and sold them at one of the pro shops. I thought I had a second source of income.

Then Strider caught on and began to hunt for golf balls with me. He even jumped into a water hazard on the P.G. golf course to retrieve them. When he found one, he carried it in his mouth and dropped it at my feet. Then he looked up at me and waggled, not just his tail stub, but all over, he was so eager for praise. I hugged him, and he licked my face with his slippery tongue.

Then something funny (to me) happened. We were running past a rich people's golf course when Strider spotted a golf ball on the fairway. He shot off, grabbed the ball, and dropped it at my feet. Four golfers riding on two carts began to shout and wave their clubs at us. Then they began to pursue us on their carts. I threw the ball back onto the fairway and fled with Strider.

When we were safe, I stopped and laughed because the whole thing was so much like a
comedy on TV. Strider always looks pleased when I laugh. Sometimes I think Strider, not Barry, is my best friend. I'll be glad to see Barry again, but I'll be sorry—oh well, I can't have everything. Half a dog is better than none, as the saying goes.

Strider has a new habit. Whenever we stop, he places his paw on my foot. It isn't an accident because he always does it. I like to think he doesn't want to leave me.

Today when I took Strider out, the fog was beginning to lift. The sun felt so good I sat on a bench at the Point to enjoy it. Strider lay with his nose on my foot. The morning was so peaceful I sat with my eyes closed, listening to the
skree
of gulls, waves whispering around rocks, bees humming on flowers, and crunching of joggers' feet on the path. I am not sure what I thought about—Mom studying hard, Dad off in his rig someplace with a load of turnips, Barry cooped up in an apartment in Los Smogland? I really don't know.

When Strider woke up, we ran some more. I saw Mr. President picking up trash, but Strider never wants to stop at that part of the beach. We ran past the high school where I will go in September. The playing field looks like a good
place to run, but a sign says, “Dogs not allowed on infield or track.”

That's the way our days have gone, with a few detours to the laundromat and the library. So far, Strider and I have avoided Mrs. Smerling.

I spoke too soon. Today when Strider and I came running home, Mrs. Smerling, wearing an old bathrobe, stepped out of her back door with a broom in her hand. Funny, she doesn't sweep the steps that often. Was she spying? We had to stop. Mrs. Smerling watched Strider mark his territory, which he has done so often he probably thinks he owns the place.

“Whose dog is that, anyway?” she asked. When I explained about joint custody, she said, “I see,” as if she didn't.

I added, “Barry is visiting his real mother this month because she has joint custody. Of him, I mean.”

Mrs. Smerling looked confused.

“He's a good dog,” I said. “He's not really a barker. That's because he's part Australian
dingo, a breed that doesn't often bark. Sometimes his shepherd blood barks, but not much.” I felt silly. Blood doesn't bark, as a teacher would say. Dogs bark.

Strider sat down, paw on my foot, ears up, and acted the part of a good dog while I stood there trying to look responsible and wondering if a barking watchdog approach might have been better. “I keep him outdoors as much as possible,” was all I could think to say.

“So I notice.” Mrs. Smerling went on sweeping her back steps.

So she's been watching us all the time, but where do we stand? It might help if Strider chased off a burglar or did something brave.

Today the mailman brought a postcard from Barry with a picture of Disneyland and a note that said, “There's nothing much to do down here but watch TV and keep my sisters from falling into the swimming pool. How's Strider? Does he miss me?”

I wondered. Maybe Strider has forgotten Barry.

Something happened today! Dad turned up, live and in person. Strider and I had come home from an early afternoon run, and there he was, sitting in his tractor, waiting. When he saw me, he climbed down from his cab and hugged me. His stomach isn't as hard as it used to be. Bandit was watching. I noticed that although Dad had a dusty look, and so did his tractor, which he used to keep shining, Bandit was wearing a clean red bandana around his neck. Dad has always been good about that.

Dad looked me over. “You're shooting—” he began, and changed to, “You're growing like a weed.” He didn't say “shooting up” because that sounds like drugs. Maybe he worries about drugs like Mom does.

Then he said, “But you're going to have to put on muscle if you expect to play football.”

I don't expect to play football. I don't even
want
to play football, even if he was a big high school football star.

I must have frowned because he looked at Strider and said, “Who's this?”

When I explained, he let Bandit out of the cab. My ex-dog looked older and fatter. Strider's hair stood up. The two dogs weren't exactly friendly, but they didn't growl, either. After sniffing around, ears up, tail wagging, Bandit marked a bush or two, Dad snapped his fingers, Bandit jumped into the cab, and that was that. I doubt if he remembered me. Maybe Strider has forgotten Barry.

Dad and I, with Strider nipping along, went into our shack. We had trouble talking, so we sat staring at a stupid game show until Mom came in. I was embarrassed because Mom caught us watching a man and a woman jumping up and down, screaming, and hugging the master of ceremonies because they had won a dishwasher and a set of luggage. I snapped off the TV.

Dad got up and kissed Mom, a just-friends kiss, not a madly-in-love kiss. At least they get along without fighting. Barry's dad and real mom quarrel over the telephone, which makes Barry unhappy.

Dad said, “I was in this area, so I thought I would drop off the support check in person.”

“Thanks, Bill.” Mom took the check, but she didn't tell him she deposits as much as she can in the bank for my college education. Support stops when I am eighteen.

“How about me taking you two out to eat?” Dad asked. We went out for a late lunch before Mom had to leave for the hospital. Dad and I had burritos and Mom had a taco salad.

We looked like a real family, so I pretended we were. Then I began to worry. There are no crops in P.G., unless you count tourists. How come Dad didn't have a load? A trucker without a load is losing money. I didn't ask questions because I didn't want to spoil being a family.

Afterward, as Dad drove off, I couldn't help thinking that a tractor that isn't pulling a load is like a lizard that has lost its tail. It can go fast, but there should be more to it.