Oh.
OH!
Lose her license.
That’s just as bad—worse!—than me losing all my therapy dog points. Tessa won’t be able to counsel people anymore if she loses her license. Tessa’s whole heart, her whole light—every bit of her spirit, every bit of her music—goes to her clients.
Counseling is her duty.
“But one thing you should know, sir,” Tessa continues, “is that these kids aren’t seeking attention. They’re seeking nurturing.”
I’m not certain what that word means, nurturing, but it sounds like a cup of warm milk. And it makes this group of adults fall silent.
The kids don’t hear any of this, I can tell, because they’re busy whispering and hissing at one another, using hand signals to show that they can cut through this fancy hotel, up a flight of stairs, and out the back entrance onto Seventh Street. They would give themselves up if they knew Tessa’s career was dangling overhead like raw meat, about to be gobbled by a beast. But they don’t know.
“Hang on, folks, my cell phone says Amelia is very close to here,” her father’s voice says. “I think we’ve almost caught up to them.”
They twist and turn on the street. “Amelia?” “Bea! Where are you?” “Luna!”
I could trot out there right now. I could bark—heaven forbid I draw that kind of attention to myself while working—and tell them where we are. I could lead the kids back to the church—it’d be easy, with our scent trails—and we could pretend none of this ever happened.
I knew this one pup in training: Freckles. Nice kid. But he soiled himself during class. Soiled himself! I never saw him again. So if that’s all it takes to disqualify a dog, I can only imagine what today’s hijinks will get me.
But I’m still wearing my bandanna. And when I’m wearing my bandanna, I belong to these kids, not Tessa.
And and? These kids? They’re smiling. Snickering. Talking.
Their Knots are looser, their Water rushes more gently, their Shadows are easier to spot.
They’re becoming a team, just as Tessa hoped. Hope is a star, orienting our spirit. Tessa says that sometimes. When she says stuff like that? It’s how you know she is not a bad guy.
The kids stay low, quiet, and they whisper, “Luna!” They motion me to follow them up a fancy set of stairs.
They want me to go with them!
I’m a part of this team. I belong to these kids.
So I crouch low too. And I sneak. One paw, then another.
We wind up the wide, marble stairs, into and through a long, wooden room carpeted in stars . . .
. . . and out the back door.
Again.
10
A Teeth Moment
The hotel was quiet and cool. The street is loud and hot. It’s like being shoved, walking through the swinging door back into this blasty hot noise. My eyes squint. We swing around the corner and trot down a hill. A lady zips by on a scooter wearing high heels and a large necklace. A car spews foul smoke like a dragon, music grumbling from its duct-taped windows. A man passing us mumbles, “Put your dog on a leash. Jeez.” The city swirls with all kinds of emotion and energy, and I have to pant to filter through them all. It feels like one large Go! and I really prefer Stay! It makes my stomach cramp.
Oh!
I pause.
Turn.
Sniff.
I have to go too, I realize, and I am surrounded by hot concrete. That will never do for doo. There are a handful of trees on this street, but they are rooted in metal bases. I sniff each one as we pass. Cigarette butts. Dumped-out coffee. Dog pee galore. I wish I could stay and explore these glorious smells, but my kids are on the move.
Caleb must notice my search for the perfect poo spot because he says, “Luna has to relieve herself. Let’s go to that park down there.” He points to a small patch of grass, a tiny ring of trees farther down the hill. They push a button on a pole—beep!—and we wait. Then we cross, passing rows of sun-hot cars, like teeth lined up in a growl. The road is hotter than the sidewalk, and I have to pick up my feet extra high.
We arrive at the grass—ahhhh. It’s cool and squishy under my paws, and it’s times like this that I don’t understand why humans wear those foot prisons all the time. Shoes, they call them. So hot and stinky. Their toes could be sinking into this cool mud right now.
Grandma trees sway inside this tiny park. Grandmas, because these trees are old and wrinkly and their arms droop. These trees have lifted a lot of leaves over the years. They stoop now because of it.
I lower my nose into the tickly grass and sniiiifffff. No, that’s not the right spot. I move two hops to the left, sniff. No. I spin, sniff. No. I rotate, sniff. No. I am one hop away. Sniff. One shuffle. Sniff. One turn . . .
THERE!
The perfect spot.
Ahhhhhh.
When I finish, I scratch the grass, flinging my scent all about for the benefit of the other dogs. They’ll want to sniff that. You are welcome, fellow canines!
I wait.
Ahem, I cough politely. The plastic baggie?
But instead Beatrice flings the back of her hand against Caleb’s chest. “How’d you know Luna had to go to the bathroom? You got a dog?”
Caleb shrugs. We, Caleb and I, feel mildly proud that Beatrice is impressed. “No, I’m allergic. To cats too. But I’ve done a lot of reading about therapy dogs. My dad says dogs in therapy are nonsense, so I looked it up.”
Nonsense. I lift my chin. It has the word sense in it, which reminds me of training. Of duty. I am nonsense, I repeat.
Sandpaper spits out some of the water he was drinking from a mud puddle. He’s back. I thought I’d ditched that mangy cat cutting through the hotel, but no such luck.
Caleb continues, “Luna here has had quite a bit of training. She won’t go to the bathroom where she isn’t supposed to. That’s why we had to come to this park.”
I lift my chin a bit, wag my tail slowly. Amelia strokes the top of my head. But no one whips out the plastic baggie, and my poo is just sitting there.
“What kinds of training?” Bea asks.
Caleb tugs at the neck of his bloody T-shirt again. He’d crawl out of it if he could. “Well, she has to come when she’s called, and she knows commands like sit and stay, stuff like that. She has to be calm and low-key around all sorts of people and dogs and situations.”
I would not be more surprised if I had gum stuck in my fur. I had no idea Caleb knew this much about me and my work. He always seemed as aloof as a cat to me.
Bea cracks her knuckles, grins at me. “That sounds like our Luna.”
Our Luna.
I knew they’d come around.
All these smiles about my hard work, my training, make me feel as proud as a poodle on grooming day. I grin back, my tongue lolling out of my mouth. But I’m getting a little jittery because where is the plastic baggie?! We are wild as wolves if no one bothers to clean up my business. I don’t care for the feeling of being wild as wolves.
“Your dad thinks therapy dogs are nonsense?” Bea pulls on this talk a little more. A Knot can pull things like that.
Nonsense must mean awesome, because that’s what therapy dogs are.
“Yes. But to be fair, my dad thinks most things are nonsense.”
Bea snorts, wheels about, and smacks Caleb on the back. “I like you, dude.”
But Caleb isn’t quite done. He’s rather enjoying this moment of both pleasing Bea and resisting his father. “Therapy dogs offer comfort, reduce anxiety, and reduce aggressive behavior. They’re kinda like superheroes.”
Superheroes? I don’t know what that means, exactly, but the way Caleb says it, it feels like the ultimate Who’s a Good Dog?
Bea smiles. “Offer comfort,” she says, pointing to Amelia. “Reduce anxiety.” Her point swerves to Caleb. “And reduce aggressive behavior.” She pounds on her chest. Caleb chuckles; Amelia beams and nods.
I glow like the moon itself. I knew these kids loved me, s
ure, but I never knew how much they appreciated me. My job. My work. My duty. I’m feeling all waggy and drooly and bursting with moonbeams of love and pride when out of nowhere, a purply sheen swoops right down in front of me, cacawwwww!
There are moments where we pause, when we’re able to breathe in, breathe out before we make a choice. Then there are moments when—snap!—our teeth bite before we even realize our mouths are stretching open.
This was a teeth moment.
I leap, my jaws wrapping around the pigeon. We hang there in midair, it seems, the pigeon and I, while I hear a sickening crack.
I feel it too. The crack. In my bones I feel it.
“Luna, NO!” Beatrice and Caleb both shout.
My feet sink back into the soft earth.
I lay the flapping bird in the tall grass. It does not fly away.
The kids all stare at it, silence filling this space where smiles just were. They all turn to me, the shock on their faces spelling it out: Luna is a bad dog.
Their feelings for me swung that fast.
In the flash of a wing, I abandoned all I’ve been trained to do, my duty. I obeyed instinct instead. How could I act so untamed?
I tuck my tail. Hang my head.
The bird flaps in the grass.
Our souls all whimper like lonely puppies.
I didn’t mean to, I say. I didn’t! I promise! I don’t know what happened!
A whine jumbles around in my throat. I droop; I can’t make eye contact with these humans.
Every protagonist has a fatal flaw, says a voice from behind a tire of a nearby taco truck. Sandpaper. It seems our protagonist, Luna, has instincts she cannot control. This does not look good for our Merry Band of Five, friends.
Shut up, cat, I growl. And it’s FOUR! Merry Band of FOUR! Another mistake. My trio of kids assume my growling is for this bird. I switch back to whining.
Every protagonist feels misunderstood, Luna, Sandpaper says.
Misunderstood, I echo as the kids furrow their brows at me, the lines of their faces twisting from shock into disgust. At me. Being misunderstood feels like being let outside, then being forgotten. Alone and scratching at the door. I feel sick.
Do not worry about being misunderstood, Sandpaper purrs, slinking down the hill toward the lake. Worry about understanding.
Worry about understanding? I yell. All I do is try to understand! That cat knows nothing about me. It’s my job to understand these humans! My duty! I am their moon!
My teeth itch with anger at that cat. With anger at myself. With anger at that stupid bird, swooping too close to my head. With anger . . . yes. At my kids. For not understanding this was instinct, not intent. I am a silver Labrador retriever. I was bred to capture birds. Why don’t they see that? Why is this any different from Bea’s punch? Than Amelia and Caleb and Bea hiding from people who love them?
This is a teeth moment.
11
Odd Numbers and Odd Things and Chess
Down Congress,” Caleb says, pointing downhill toward the shimmery lake. “And then right. That’s what the map says.”
“No, listen,” Beatrice says. “There are bike trails on the other side of the bridge. Let’s take those to Zilker. It’d be harder for them”—she jerks her head backward, over her shoulder—“to find us that way.”
Caleb is biting his lip, biting back an argument about time and slices of seconds, but Amelia smiles. Nods.
We walk, the hill pulling us. Slowly. Silently.
“Go back, Luna,” Beatrice says. After the pigeon they want me to leave again. I won’t. But my antics with the bird hang as low and gray as the storm clouds that smear the horizon. I lost sight of my duty, lost my training, and gave in to instinct. I feel shame. It is as thick as sickness.
“One, two, three . . .” Caleb mutters. He touches each tree as we pass it, fingertips trailing over bark.
We approach the bottom of the hill. Behind us is the pink dome of the capitol building. In front of us is a long stretch of bridge over the lake.
“. . . five, six . . .” It’s the only sound any of us make, Caleb’s counting.
“. . . eight.” Caleb stops next to this last tree at the base of the hill. He feels—we feel—a sudden, heavy disappointment, like finding there are no more dog treats after doing a spectacular trick.
Caleb bites his lip, looks up the hill toward the capitol. Hesitation hangs over him.
“C’mon,” Beatrice says. “Walk sign. We gotta keep moving.”
Caleb swallows, tugs at the neck of his T-shirt. “But there are eight trees.”
Beatrice throws her head back, huffs. She is as impatient as a squeaky toy. “There are more than eight trees, Caleb. Let’s bolt.”
Caleb closes his eyes. Breathes deeply. He’s trying the calming techniques Tessa taught him. I mirror him: breathe in, breathe out . . . nice work.
“I wish I had my backpack . . .” he mutters. I feel him miss the goo he slathers on his hands. He’s touched trees and he doesn’t have it.
Ah, our seeker from the House of Caleb faces an obstacle. It’s Sandpaper again, his cat voice sliding out from behind a metal pole. The walk sign beeps loudly, noting that the time to cross the street is closing. This is exactly what our quest requires.
I roll my eyes. Hush, cat. He’s working through something.
Indeed! Aren’t we all?
Are we?
Beatrice cracks her knuckles, bounces on her toes. Her eyes land on Sandpaper, but before she can finish saying, “Hey, kitty!” Sandpaper has vanished behind a bike rack. The sign flashes a “Don’t Walk” red hand. “Okay,” she says to Caleb. “Tell me. Eight trees?”
Caleb sizzles like a sparkler, burning with embarrassment. “Yes. Between here and the park we left. And well . . . that’s a problem.”
“It’s a problem,” Beatrice repeats. Her flannel shirt is knotted around her waist, and she tugs at the arms. “Because . . . ?”
“It’s unnatural.”
Beatrice mashes her lips, and like she often does, she crackles with a mixture of feelings: Amusement. Impatience. Curiosity. I love how beautifully a Knot can fray. “Go on.”
Caleb looks pained, like he has a sore tooth. “Well, eight trees, so perfectly spaced like this . . . that would never occur in nature. It’s unnatural.”
Our seeker is correct, Sandpaper says, dusty whiskers poking from behind a bike tire. Eight trees. It would not occur. I like his sensibilities.
You can’t count that high, I quip to the cat, largely because I can’t count that high, and I can’t imagine a cat doing anything I can’t do.
“Odd numbers occur in nature,” Caleb says, yanking at the hem of his T-shirt, then the neck again. He unbuttons a button on his outer, crisper shirt. “Like pi. And the zeros and ones in computer code. And Fibonacci spirals.”
Ah yes, those, Sandpaper says, nodding knowingly, as if he knows exactly what a . . . a Fibbing spiral is.
Beatrice scratches her chin. “So you’re obsessed with things being imperfect? Because this is the right crowd for you, bud.”
Caleb actually manages a chuckle through his distress, and it’s like watching an egg crack. There’s a strange beauty inside an egg.
“I’m obsessed with things being natural,” he says.
Bea nods slowly. “And an odd number of trees would do that. Make it look natural.”
Caleb beams with being understood at last, and I feel it too: it’s like the thrill of hope that goes with a human holding up a leash. “Yes! Exactly!”
“Pretty sure it’s still unnatural if you’re planning for it to look natural,” Bea says gently. She’s tiptoeing into Caleb’s world of ideas.
Caleb sighs. Nods. “I know. That’s very upsetting, don’t you think?”
Beatrice tiptoes further. “Well, eight. It’s like eight pawns on a chessboard, right? And there are eight trees lining the other side of the street. So that’s pretty cool, isn’t it? Like they’re facing off?”
&nb
sp; Caleb blinks. “You know chess?”
Beatrice arches an eyebrow at him. The pink bun on the top of her head slides around cockily as she plants a fist on her hip. “Yes, I know chess.”
The sign beeps, telling us to walk. And Caleb does it: he walks, because this girl understands odd numbers and odd things and chess.
The street is hot but cooling. Steamy, still, hours after the last rain. Four of us stride through the painted white crosswalk.
I pause. Sniff the air.
Panic makes my heart leap like a frog. Nonononono . . .
I was worried about Caleb, about his obsessions, and I didn’t see. I didn’t feel it!
Sandpaper grins with a twitch of his whiskers and narrates: Luna notices that she seems to have misplaced something.
As soon as Sandpaper says it, Beatrice stops too.
“Where’s Amelia?!”
12
A Whole Dictionary of Hugs
AMELIA?!” Caleb shouts. His voice cracks, a pup’s yip becoming a big dog’s bark.
“Shhhhh!” Beatrice says, her green eyes sliding around the area. Crowds now clog the bridge we’re about to cross. There are lots of ankles and knees and jeans and boots and sandals planted on the sidewalk as these humans overlook the water below. “You don’t want our parents to hear, do you? They can’t be far behind.”
See, Sandpaper says. Antagonists. Bad guys.
They aren’t bad guys! I snap. I sniff the crowd. AMELIA?!
We—Beatrice, Caleb, Sandpaper, and I—weave through the crowds whispering, “Amelia?” “Where are you, Amelia?”
Luna begins to panic as she realizes she’s lost one of her charges, Sandpaper narrates.
I narrow my eyes at that cat. Not panic, I say, though that’s exactly what I feel. Panic feels like having your ball sail over a too-high fence. A favorite thing, gone as you watch.
I am failing at my duty.
This bridge is hot. It bakes all day in the sun and there are no trees to hug it with shade. I pant.
I bump into a knee here, step on a sandaled foot there. I look up. Above me hover hundreds of bellies and chins and nostrils. This crowd is dizzying and confusing and it smells like hot summer feet. “Dude. Put your dog on a leash,” a bearded fellow growls. I growl back.
Luna Howls at the Moon Page 5