When Raggedy Annie came out again, my eyes were closed. I drifted off listening to Luke sounding out words. “F-f-frozen. N-n-north.” He was right, he wasn’t much of a reader. But I knew he was smart. About things like that, you can’t fool a smart dog.
The next two days went more or less like that. Luke wouldn’t get picked, he wouldn’t get the quarter, and we’d head straight over to Raggedy Annie’s. I didn’t always take a nap, though. I’d stick my nose into the book on Luke’s lap while he sounded out the words. That’s how I learned to read. It wasn’t so hard. I got real caught up in that book. It was all about this great dog, Buck, and his adventures in the frozen North. It had a man in it, too. I knew Buck was going to save that man even before he did.
14
IT WAS THE LAST DAY of Adoption Week.
I crawled out from under my porch, glad to leave the noisy rats behind. Nosing my way toward the home, I thought long and hard about Luke, about why he acted the way he did, as if he didn’t care if he got a home or not. I think he was afraid to show how much it meant to him. Then he could say it didn’t matter when he didn’t get picked. He didn’t know how to change his ways, and so he probably wouldn’t. Something had to happen to show the parent people what a good boy he was, and how much he needed them. I thought and thought, and finally hit upon a plan. I wasn’t sure it would work, but it was worth a try. Something told me it was Luke’s last chance.
All that worrying and planning had made me wander off course. I was late. Hurrying across the parking lot, I never noticed the old pickup parked there. Once again I stationed myself under the window.
The boys were in their line, hands held out so that the old gray guy could check them. Some boys had to leave the room to wash up again. Luke was one of them. I watched him slump out. He came back, wiping his hands down his pants, and went to the end of the line.
The parent people came in, two by two. They all looked like pretty good catches to me. Well fed. A little bit lonely but happy looking. And what do you know: the last ones in were the perfect parents, the same pretty lady and the man with the haystack hair.
Luke had another chance, if only he would grab it!
The gray guy gave his speech, the boys laughed when they were supposed to, and then the shaking hands stuff started. Luke went down the line dragging his feet, sticking out his hand each time as if he didn’t mean to do it.
I waited until he was one boy away from the haystack guy, until he reached to shake the haystack guy’s hand, then I barked.
Loud.
Everybody turned.
Mrs. Pinch’s mouth fell open.
The gray guy’s glasses slid down his nose.
“Jack!” cried Luke, and raced to the window.
And then I began doing my flips. Flip flip flip. Past the window and back again, flip, flip, flip.
The window flew up. Luke stuck out his head. “Jack!” Luke was laughing, laughing so hard I had to flip a couple more times.
The pretty lady and the haystack man had come to the window, too. They were smiling, watching Luke watching me.
“That’s my dog!” cried Luke, grabbing the lady’s hand. “His name is Jack!”
15
LUKE NEVER DID LET GO of the pretty lady’s hand. Katrin her name is. He pulled her down the hall, out the door, and introduced her to me. She knelt to pet me, one-handed. Luke still had hold of the other one.
Well, Luke knows a good thing when he sees one. He just had to learn to look up.
Olaf smiled at the three of us from the window, his haystack hair shining in the sun.
It wasn’t long before we were all in the pickup, Luke in the front with his new folks, me in the back where the wind ruffled my fur and I could watch the long road disappearing behind us. It took a while to get to our new place, but it was worth a sore hind end. Not since Bob and Ellen’s ranch had I seen so much land in one place.
We drove up to a little house and a barn, and the first thing I smelled was sheep. Sheep! I hopped out and began rounding up the herd. All six of them. Yeah, I know, only six, but in no time they were the best-trained, most well behaved sheep in the whole world. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know.
Olaf and Katrin, our folks, are just getting things going. Couple hundred acres is all. That’s not much for a sheep ranch, but it’s a start. Come spring we’ll have our first lambs. More work for me once the silly things are up and running, but that’s my job.
After a long hard workday, I sleep with Luke, down by his feet. He needs me, especially in the winter. It gets pretty cold here. Hanging from his bedpost is my old harness. I think Luke put it there to remind us how good we have it now.
Luke likes his new school, and he does his best to make Katrin and Olaf proud. Almost every day he brings something home for Katrin to stick on the refrigerator. He can read now and, boy, can he draw. Trees and sheep and trains and just about everything. He even drew a picture of me. He had to tell me it was me, but Katrin said it was a very handsome likeness and put a frame around it. It’s hanging right there, over our bed.
I don’t dream about the sheep anymore, which is just as well. Sheep in the daytime, sheep at night. A fella wouldn’t get any rest. But one night I dreamed about the Goat Man. It was one of those dreams you know is real when you’re having it. No different from real life is what I’m saying, with smells and color and sound. Like TV, only better.
In the dream, it was night. The sky was a big black bowl set down over our heads, and the silver stars hung down from it as if they were on strings.
We were camped alongside a river, the goats hunkered down, and the Goat Man was roasting some dinner over a hot fire. My mouth was watering, watching that goat’s meat sizzle and smoke.
It wasn’t long before he would leave us. The Goat Man didn’t know he was going, of course. But maybe, just a little, he did. Because he was talking about the philosophy again, the way old folks sometimes do. Why we’re on this earth, why we do what we do, all that sort of thing.
“Life’s not so hard to figure out, Shep.” He poked the fire. Flames shot up, the meat sizzled and spit. “Sad to say, most people don’t know that. They’ve got to get themselves a whole pile of money, big cars, fancy houses. Run themselves ragged.” He shook his head like he was mad and sad at the same time. “Truth is, a fellow doesn’t need a whole lot to make him happy. A place to bed down, warm food in his belly, honest work, good company. But he’s gotta have one thing more, doesn’t he, boy?” I didn’t know what that could be. All I needed right then was a nice, fat chunk of that meat. “A fellow’s got to know he made a difference. That he used his noodle to make things a little better.”
Then he gave me that special wink, like he did when he was feeling extra smart.
When I awoke from that dream, I didn’t know where I was at first. I had been so many places by then that I’d wait sometimes to open my eyes. Who knew but that I’d find myself back in that terrible circus again. But there was Luke, fast asleep, his feet against my side. I cocked my ears to listen, but the Goat Man had faded away to where the memories go and wait for you to have them again.
Outside our window the moon was just a sliver, a wink in the dark sky.
ALSO BY VALERIE HOBBS
Defiance
Letting Go of Bobby James, or
How I Found My Self of Steam
Stefan’s Story
Sonny’s War
Tender
Charlie’s Run
Carolina Crow Girl
How Far Would You Have Gotten If I Hadn’t
Called You Back?
Get It While It’s Hot. Or Not.
Go Fish!
QUESTIONS FOR THE AUTHOR
VALERIE HOBBS
What did you want to be when you grew up?
More than anything, I wanted to be a professional ice-skater.
When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?
There wasn’t any one moment of realization. It just came over me sne
akily, and then I realized that I was one.
What’s your first childhood memory?
Sticking my finger into an open light socket. It was almost my last memory!
What’s your most embarrassing childhood memory?
Running naked out of the bathroom when the lights went off into the living room full of people. Of course, the lights came right back on and there I was.
What’s your favorite childhood memory?
Christmas morning, deep snow, a “real” baby carriage and doll, a miniature piano.
As a young person, who did you look up to most?
Lad, A Dog. I’m serious.
What was your worst subject in school?
Math.
What was your best subject in school?
English.
What was your first job?
Selling lady’s underwear at Woolworth’s.
How did you celebrate publishing your first book?
I took myself to lunch at an expensive restaurant downtown and had a glass of wine. Then I wrote notes for my next book all over the paper table cover. But I didn’t write the book.
Where do you write your books?
In my “office” upstairs, which is also the TV room.
Where do you find inspiration for your writing?
Walking in Elings Park which has an ocean view and hang gliders.
Which of your characters is most like you?
They all are in some way, but Bronwyn Lewis is the most me.
When you finish a book, who reads it first?
My husband, Jack.
Are you a morning person or a night owl?
Definitely, morning.
What’s your idea of the best meal ever?
Fresh-caught salmon from the Pacific Northwest, a glass of Jaffurs Syrah, and chocolate mousse for dessert.
Which do you like better: cats or dogs?
Dogs (but please don’t tell Molly, my cat).
What do you value most in your friends?
Their ability to listen and to love me unconditionally.
Where do you go for peace and quiet?
My backyard.
What makes you laugh out loud?
My grandkids, Diego (six) and Rafael (two and a half). Just about everything they do cracks me up.
What’s your favorite song?
“I Will Survive.”
Who is your favorite fictional character?
Dorothea Brooke, Middlemarch.
What are you most afraid of?
Poverty.
What time of the year do you like best?
Fall (with Spring a close second).
What is your favorite TV show?
The Office.
If you were stranded on a desert island, who would you want for company?
My husband, Jack.
If you could travel in time, where would you go? Paris, 1920.
What’s the best advice you have ever received about writing?
Write from the heart.
What do you want readers to remember about your books?
We are amazing and powerful human beings, each and every one of us. Sometimes we lose our way but we can always find it again.
What would you do if you ever stopped writing?
Read. Travel. Whine a lot.
What do you like best about yourself?
My sense of humor.
What is your worst habit?
I fall into pessimism and believe that I will never write another book, or a good enough book.
What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment?
Learning little by little to see the bright side of things.
Where in the world do you feel most at home?
Santa Barbara, California and Volcano, Hawaii.
What do you wish you could do better?
I wish I could write and illustrate a picture book.
What would your readers be most surprised to learn about you?
I once raced cars.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Valerie Hobbs’s Defiance, available soon in paperback from Square Fish.
EXCERPT
Toby knew he was in trouble, but the cow didn’t.
She just kept gazing at him with her huge brown eyes, like she was in love or something. So he went on petting her, even though he wasn’t supposed to be here. His mother would have a fit if she knew. She was always having a fit about something, even out here in the country, where they were supposed to be having a vacation.
The cow was really big, and at first, when he’d stopped his bicycle to get a closer look, Toby was a little bit afraid of her. Didn’t even know it was a “her” until he saw what was underneath, her huge pink udder swollen with milk. It made him think about the time at the hospital when he was just a little kid, eight or nine. How his eyes kept sliding over to the box of doctor gloves by the side of the sink. He knew very well that he wasn’t supposed to touch anything, but they’d left him alone in the examining room for such a long time.
That was when Toby understood for the first time what being sick really meant. Nobody had yelled at him, not even when the glove full of water slipped from his hand and spurted out all over the room, all over the nurse who always saved him the grape Tootsie Pops. Nobody said a word. Sick kids got away with stuff.
Like this morning. When he got back to the cabin, his mother would probably threaten to ground him. Or make him return the bicycle to the shed where he’d found it. But her threats were mostly hot air. All Toby had to do was act tired or touch his side. “Are you okay, honey?” she’d say, smoothing her hand over his head. “Are you feeling all right?”
The cow’s head was ten times bigger than a person’s, and hanging over the fence as if she had been waiting for somebody just like Toby to come along and pet her. Somebody who didn’t mind the fat blue flies that buzzed around her eyes and ears. And now she wouldn’t let him go. If he tried to take his hand away, she’d bump it with her nose and make him start all over again.
It was a warm morning, growing hotter as the sun climbed the sky. Toby could feel it on his back and on the back of his neck. Sweat trickled from under his Giants cap and down the sides of his face. He let it be. The flies buzzed in circles around the cow’s head, and somewhere in the distance a tractor coughed and started. The world was waking up. The cow stayed right where she was. So did Toby. Inside, there was this peaceful feeling. As if he’d never have to do another thing forever but stand here and pet this big old black-and-white cow.
Big, but skinny. Skinnier than cows were supposed to be, at least the ones he saw on TV or in books. You could see where her ribs were trying to poke through. Cows ate grass, that was one thing he knew, and this cow was standing in a whole field full. Grass and weeds and purple flowers that he thought might be clover. So why was she so skinny? Where did she live anyway? Where did she sleep? Not a barn in sight. But he’d passed a dirt driveway that had a banged-up mailbox at the end of it. Whoever didn’t love this cow enough probably lived down that driveway.
He wondered what the cow was thinking about him. He was skinny, too. Tall for eleven, but she probably wouldn’t know that. Maybe she was wondering about the bruises on his arms. It was hard to tell with cows.
Tomorrow he’d bring her an apple, or some Cheerios. But today, right now, he had to get home. He gave the cow one last rub between the eyes. It was still early. If his mother wasn’t up yet, he could sneak the bike back into the shed.
Using the fence post for support, Toby climbed back onto the bike. Like a girl, lifting his right leg over the bar. He wished he were strong enough to leap up and land on the seat, the right way, the way the boys at school did. But at least he had a bike to ride. Pushing off with his left foot, Toby wobbled toward home.
The road stretched ahead of him into the distance. Longer than when he was coming down it, though that couldn’t be. After a while, he stopped the bike, sweat running down his face, dripping from his chin. He took off his cap, pulle
d up his T-shirt, and wiped his whole head with it. He began to walk the bike. It was easy in the shade, but harder as the road began to climb.
It seemed to go on forever, snaking up through dappled shade. Toby watched his feet instead of the road, one sneakered foot going forward, then the other, fooling himself into thinking it wasn’t so steep, or so far. All the same, he was out of breath by the time he got to the top. So beat, he thought about leaving the bike at the foot of the drive that led to their rented cabin.
But the only way to keep it for tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that, was to hide the old bike in the shed. He bent himself into one last push, breathing hard, leaning into the worn rubber handle grips for support. And when he lifted his head, there was his mother. She was standing on the porch in her fuzzy blue bathrobe with her fists on her hips and her black curls poking out of her head like springs.
“Toby?”
Head down, Toby pushed the bike across the dry grass and laid it against the side of the cabin. It didn’t have a kickstand. It didn’t even have a front fender. But at least it was a bike. In the city he wasn’t allowed to ride a bike. He still wasn’t very good at it.
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