Both Can Be True

by Jules Machias

  I quickly look away from the bag. “Here, Houdini,” I say in my softest voice. “Tuna flavor, mega delish.” I extend a treat into the dryer’s dinged-up innards where he’s crouched, spooked by Roxy the husky’s loud barking ten feet away. “Come out, little kit-kat. I’ll make sure you’re safe.” I keep up a steady, calm stream of words, trying not to hear Tina’s footsteps as she walks toward the Freezer of Doom to put in the euthanized pet she’s carrying. When I started volunteering at the kennel a month ago, seeing anyone open the death freezer sent me to the bathroom in tears. Now whenever one of the vet techs brings down a bag from Dr. Snyder’s office upstairs, I go find the most sad or scared kennel resident and give them a hug or a snuggle to distract myself.

  I guess today Houdini’s my snuggle buddy, if I can get the scaredy-cat out of the dryer. I’m so focused on him that it takes a minute to realize Tina has passed the freezer and her footsteps have stopped at room C, the cages we only use when the rest of the kennel is full. I crane my neck to try to see what she’s doing.

  Houdini finally takes the treat from my hand and jumps out of the dryer. I scoop him up and return him to the relative silence of the cat room he escaped. “Guess we know why your name’s Houdini,” I tell him. “Bit off more than you could chew out here, didn’t you? All those doggos doing big, loud borks.”

  Houdini puts his paws on my chest and rubs his head on my jaw, all affection now that he feels safe again. I scratch his chin, then carefully peel him off me and put him back in his cage, double-checking that the latch is fastened all the way.

  I leave the cat room and glance down the hall. The door to room C is closed. I tiptoe over and lean my head against it. It’s hard to hear over Roxy, but between the barks, Tina is making the quiet murmuring sound she uses to calm an upset dog. I knock softly and the murmur stops. There’s silence for a moment, and then the door opens.

  Tina’s lips are pressed together. I wait for her to explain, but she leans to look around me. I turn to see what she’s looking at. There’s nothing. “Uh . . . what are you doing?” I ask.

  She studies my face like she’s trying to decide if she can trust an eighth-grade kid. Her dark eyes are bright like always in her warm brown face, as if they’ve sucked in specks of sunlight. But surrounding that, in the smile lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, is worry and sadness. “You good at keeping your mouth shut?” she asks in her gravelly smoker’s voice.

  “I’m good at forgetting important stuff.” Like Cole’s birthday. Like the fact that guys who are almost fourteen should never cry in public.

  “Guess that’ll do.” Tina steps aside to let me in. When she pulls the door shut behind us, Roxy’s barking drops by thirty decibels. In the last cage, a ball of orange fur with tiny black feet twitches on a towel. “Chewbarka. Spared from death by a botched euth and lucky timing.”

  I walk over and touch the sleeping Pomeranian’s fur. “Dr. Snyder used the wrong drug?”

  “Nope. He gave her the Telazol, the injection that makes them fall asleep. Then he got called to sew up a mutt who’d been mauled by a dalmatian. He told me to do the second injection. The lethal one.” A muscle in her jaw moves like she’s grinding her teeth. “I didn’t.”

  I’ve never seen Tina mad, but I guess this is what it looks like. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

  “Who kills their little dog just ’cause she’s going senile?” Tina touches her mouth like she’s smoking, then realizes she’s not holding a cigarette. She kneels and runs her hands through Chewbarka’s fur. The dog twitches again and opens her cloudy black eyes halfway. “You’re okay, girly,” Tina croons. “You’re just a little loopy. Gonna be real thirsty soon.”

  “Why thirsty?” My voice cracks and I clear my throat.

  “From the Telazol. The guy who brought her in left when Doc Snyder did, soon as she was asleep.” She rubs Chewbarka’s ears. “I’ve wanted to stop so many euths. People put their pets to sleep for the worst reasons. A dog’s getting old and needs meds, or is peeing in the house because they’re incontinent, or a kid turns out to be allergic.” Her eyes are all anger and sadness. “Doc’s in charge, though. I’m just the assistant. But today, for the first time, I was in charge. So I skipped the barbiturate, stuck her in the death sack, and brought her down.”

  I cover my mouth to keep in the giddy laugh. I’ve liked Tina since I started coming here, and now I know exactly why: She’s like me. Her heart’s too big. It’s impractical and causes problems. As my twin brother, Mitchell, would sneer, it makes you an overly emotional train wreck who cares too much about dumb stuff. “You just walked past Doc Snyder with her like no big deal?” I love the thought of her fooling him. He’s so crotchety and intimidating that the idea of sneaking anything past him is very, very satisfying.

  “Yep. That’s the part where you keep your mouth shut. Case it ain’t obvious.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it.” Dr. Snyder was surprised when I stopped here on my way home from school last month to ask if I could volunteer to walk the dogs at the kennel. You want to work for free? he’d asked. Why the blazes would you do that?

  I just shrugged and told him I liked dogs. Which is the understatement of the year, and left out the sob story about my border collie, Frankie, getting sick and dying in July and my mom refusing to get another dog because she’s already stretched too thin and can’t take on one more thing. Not to mention the part where I needed something to do after school since I’d always hung out with Cole before, and if I spent one more afternoon alone in my room avoiding Mitchell and looking at my dad’s old Nikon and feeling wrecked, I was going to lose my noodle for good.

  Chewbarka makes a feeble coughing sound. Tina leans down and touches her forehead to the dog’s. “You’re okay, little one.” She kneads the back of Chewbarka’s neck, which must feel good because Chewbarka nestles into Tina’s palm even though her eyes are still mostly closed.

  “What are you going to do with her? Just take her home after your shift?” I ask.

  “Yep. My house has been dog-free for too long. It’s getting lonely.”

  “I know that feel.” My house has been dog-free since Frankie died, and it makes everything seem empty. But I can’t imagine what Mom or Mitchell would say if I tried to rescue a dog like Tina’s doing. They already think I’m the world’s biggest softie, and they constantly tell me in big and small ways to stop being so sensitive. Last week Mom said that everyone has feelings and I need to get better at managing mine. Which, thanks, I know. “Tina . . . would it be weird if I said you’re my hero?”

  She smiles as she braces her hands on her thighs and stands up, both knees cracking. “I gotta go upstairs to help with that dog that got attacked. You gonna be here awhile?”

  “Till six.” That’s when the office closes and I’m supposed to leave, since I’m not on the payroll and don’t have a key to lock up behind me.

  “You mind checking her every ten minutes or so?”

  A fizzy bubble of joy fills me. I couldn’t save Frankie, but I can help Tina save this dog. And Mom doesn’t even need to know. “Of course.”

  “Give her as much water as she’ll drink. And keep the room C door shut in case anybody else comes down.” Tina heads for the door that leads to the outside stairs she came down with Chewbarka in the bag. The building’s old and it’s the only way to get between the office upstairs and the kennel down here. “I’ll get her soon as Doc leaves at six.”

  I nod to show I’ve got it, just like a real employee instead of a thirteen-year-old volunteer.

  I’m usually focused on the dogs while they’re outside in the gravel yard, offering different toys till I find one they like and playing until they get bored, but today, all I can think about is that little Pomeranian waking up confused and thirsty in a strange place, abandoned by someone she probably loves. Every time I check on her, she seems a little more awake, but she won’t drink water, just lays on the towel blinking and turning her head like she’s looking for somethin
g.

  After I finish with the last of the boarders, I sit in room C, pull Chewbarka into my lap, and curl up with her, rubbing her soft ears as she blinks and works her tongue around in her mouth. Her heartbeat is a warm flutter against my stomach. “Good girl,” I murmur in her ear. I touch my forehead to hers like Tina did, telling her with my thoughts that she’s wanted, she’s loved, even if it’s not by the man who brought her in. “Tina will be a good mom for you,” I say. “Yes, she will. You’re a lucky pup to get to live with Tina.”

  Chewbarka relaxes in my arms. After a while, I stand her in front of the water dish. She takes a big drink, wobbling on her feet. I keep my hands at her sides in case she starts to fall. She pees while she’s drinking like she’s not aware she’s doing it. When she’s finished, I settle her back on the towel and clean up the pee. I try to brush her orange hairs off my black T-shirt, but they’re stuck good. In my photography class the other day, the new kid, Ash, was doing the same thing with the three colors of fur on her shirt. I asked how many pets she has. She said just one, a beagle, but that his epic farts counted for at least three dogs. Then she blushed and pretended to be interested in her phone.

  I don’t know why I keep thinking about her hazel eyes and pale skin and sandy hair with purple streaks. She was wearing a Pink Floyd shirt today. I used to listen to Pink Floyd with Dad.

  I finish picking the hair off my shirt and stand up. I’ve walked all the dogs, but I should keep an eye on Chewbarka till Tina’s shift is over in half an hour. I take Roxy the husky back outside and we play with a tennis ball. Then I walk a couple other dogs again, then I cuddle with a tired black Lab with a gray muzzle for a while, and then it’s 6:02.

  I hang out in the kennel office and read the logbook while I wait. It’s full of feeding notes for the boarders, which I don’t have to worry about since I don’t feed the dogs. I check my phone: 6:07.

  I tap my fingers on the logbook. I flip its pages and set it neatly in the center of the desk. At 6:15, it occurs to me that maybe it’s taking longer than anticipated to fix up the dog who was attacked. I bite my knuckles, nervous that Dr. Snyder will ask why I’m here so late and I won’t have an answer. Maybe I could tell him I’m waiting for Tina to come down and lock the door after I leave. I don’t usually wait, though, so that might be weird.

  I finally drum up some guts and climb the outside steps. The late-September air is still warm and humid. The overgrown field beyond the kennel’s gravel parking lot is backlit by the low evening sun, glowing and lovely.

  Mitchell complains Ohio is boring, but he never stops to really look at it.

  The office lights are off and the surgery room is dark. Gavin, the college freshman who answers the phones in the afternoons, is the only one around, putting a file away. He spots me and jumps. “Jeebus, kid! Make some noise or something.”

  “I’m sorry. Just looking for Tina. Is she still here?”

  “Left early. Her daughter was in a bad car wreck in Iowa or Illinois or someplace.”

  Uh-oh. “That’s awful.”

  Gavin glances at Dr. Snyder’s closed door. “Doc was cold as ice. Soon as she left, crying, he was grumbling that getting someone to cover her shifts will be a huge pain in his butt.” Gavin shakes his head. “Some people have no sympathy. It’s gross.”

  “Yeah,” I say, my mind churning. “I guess not.” My phone pings with a text.

  “You need something, or what? I’m getting ready to leave.”

  “Oh. Uh, no. I just wanted to ask Tina—um, about one of the dogs.”

  Gavin’s eyes brighten. “Anything I can help with?” Tina told me last week he wants to be a vet, that he’s always super interested in the animals who visit Dr. Snyder.

  “No, it was just about, um, whether she fed one.” The lie feels flimsy. “It’s no big deal. I’ll go back down and make sure everything’s good.”

  “Cool, then I’ll lock this door behind you.” He gestures at the back door I just came in. “Not trying to be rude, just, you know. I forgot once and the night-shift lady found it unlocked and told the doc. He almost fired me.”

  “Oh. Right. Sure.” I go out the door and he locks it behind me. I turn and look through the window. He gives me a wave, then heads toward the front door through the dark office.

  I walk down the steps, glad Gavin was only worried about his door-locking task and not Tina’s. I check my phone. The text was from Mom. Home soon? I’ve got dinner going.

  Sorry, kennel is packed, I write. I hate lying, but sometimes . . . it’s necessary. A cat escaped and everything turned into chaos. Still trying to help settle things down.

  I’ll cover your plate, Mom writes. Let me know when you’re on your way home. I’ll come get you if you’re there after dark.

  At the sound of the opening kennel door, Roxy starts barking again, which sets off the schnauzer next to her and the mutt next to the schnauzer and a poodle a few cages over. I slip into room C and pick Chewbarka up. She smells like pee. I hug her and bury my nose in the back of her neck.

  I can’t just leave her. The night worker will find her here with no tags or info, and she’ll ask what’s up and the vet will find out Tina lied and he’ll fire Tina and put Chewbarka to sleep.

  I can’t let that happen.

  But I can’t take her home. Mom was telling me all summer to stop moping, to get up and do something productive. I hoped volunteering at the kennel would fix that, but now she says I come home all sad because I want a dog. She’s not wrong, but still. Bringing a dog home would not improve relations. And Mitchell would give me no end of grief for being a sucker for a hopeless case like Chewbarka. Cole doesn’t talk to me anymore, but if he found out, he’d roll his eyes and sigh.

  Last year, when things were still good between us, he would’ve wanted to help. But since the spring, when his voice dropped and he grew three inches and started hanging around Erin Rogers, he’s become . . . different. Tougher. Better at hiding how he feels, unless it’s anger at me. For forgetting his birthday. For kissing Fiona Jones, the girl he and Mitchell both liked, at a spin-the-bottle game at his end-of-the-year party in June.

  I pace in the tiny room, holding Chewbarka to my chest. “It’s okay,” I tell her, or maybe I’m saying it to myself. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” Even if I take her home and lie that I found her as a stray, Mom’s been insistent that we are not getting another dog under any circumstances. She’d take Chewbarka to the pound, and Chewbarka’s so old that no one would adopt her and they’d put her to sleep within a week. Dad’s a dog lover like me, but I can’t plead my case with him because he moved out in August so his commute would be shorter. Me and Mitchell know that’s a lie, though, since he only moved twelve miles away and he’s supposed to come home on the weekends but mostly hasn’t and this is really a trial separation with Mom. I can’t ask Mitchell to help because he’s also mad that I kissed Fiona. I can’t ask Cole because . . . well.

  There’s got to be a solution. One I can implement alone.

  Maybe . . . maybe the tent’s still in the garage from when we were a happy family and went on camping trips. I could keep her in the tent.

  But where?

  My mind roves over our neighborhood: the gas station at its entrance, then the condo complex, then the houses. There’s a scraggly patch of woods between the back of the gas station and the start of the condos. It’s not big, maybe the size of a block, and it’s mostly honeysuckle so thick you can’t easily walk through it. But maybe there’s room to hide a tent. If I can sneak home and get the tent, I could put it up in the woods and keep Chewbarka there till Tina comes back. Or at least till I can get Tina’s number and call her to ask what I should do.

  It’s almost October, but not cold out yet, so I won’t have to worry about that. But the other logistics . . . I’d have to lie to Mom, which is a big risk because I suck at lying and sometimes cry and give myself away. I’d have to hide Chewbarka in the shed tonight when I get home and hope she stays quiet till I
can sneak out after Mom goes to bed and attempt to put up the tent in the woods in the dark. Then if all that worked out, I’d have to sneak out every morning before Mom gets up and let Chewbarka out of the tent to pee. I’d have to go straight to the tent after school and sneak there again after bedtime, and probably spend some time playing with her because she’d be bored from being alone all day. And how will I even get her home tonight? Two miles is a long way to walk a bike while carrying a Pomeranian. I don’t have a leash or collar for her. And if I did take her and keep her in the tent, I’d have to find a way to feed her. I could maybe scoop some chow out of the kennel’s bin, but that’s stealing. . . .

  There’s no way. Mom would be furious if she found out what I was trying to do. I’d never hear the end of it from Mitchell. I should put Chewbarka back in the cage. Walk away. Forget I saw anything.

  I’m setting her back on her towel with a heavy heart when I hear tires on the gravel parking lot. The night kennel worker must be here. I’m always gone long before now, so I’ve never met her. I don’t know if she’s nice, if she’d understand about this, if she’d rat Tina out.

  Chewbarka licks my wrist. Her tongue is rough and dry like she’s thirsty again. I look at her graying face and cloudy eyes.

  She’ll be killed if I leave her here.

  The kennel door opens. I pull room C’s door closed and turn off the light. I listen as the night worker plods down the hall to the office. The chair creaks when she sits in it.

  Ten agonizing minutes later, she finally gets up and fills the mop bucket in the laundry room. I listen to her take it to room A, then put the first dog into an empty cage so she can clean the floor in there.

  I tuck Chewbarka under my arm and grab a leash off the hook by the door. There’s an empty cloth shopping bag that held a kennel resident’s toys. I take the bag and slip outside. I’ll return it tomorrow.