Mountain Dog

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Mountain Dog Page 4

by Margarita Engle

a nightmare

  impossible

  no.

  10

  GABE THE DOG

  TOGETHERNESS

  I don’t understand sadness,

  but I can smell the way it makes

  the boy feel unnaturally heavy,

  so that his breath doesn’t seem

  to be made

  of air.

  It’s an odor that rhymes

  with the weight of aloneness,

  so I press my head against the palm

  of his hand, hoping to help him feel

  the floating lightness

  of never-lonely.

  11

  TONY THE BOY

  THE RESCUE BEAST

  Tío notices my mood.

  He invites me to talk, but I don’t feel

  ready, so he takes me with him

  out to the woods, where I help him

  by hiding for his search-and-rescue team

  of volunteer handlers and their dogs.

  Hiding offers me a strange escape

  from feeling cheated by life,

  even though the dog handlers call me

  a volunteer victim.

  The way they say it, victim sounds so useful,

  because it means that when I hide

  in the forest, all the dogs have a chance

  to practice finding a real victim.

  There are all sorts of complicated

  training exercises, but the simplest

  is the first one every SAR dog learns:

  a runaway.

  All I have to do is race away

  from a dog as it watches me.

  The handler holds on to its collar

  so it can’t follow until I’ve vanished

  behind a tree or a boulder.

  Once I’m out of sight, the dog

  is turned loose, and the handler

  shouts, Find!

  The eager dog rushes

  to do his playful

  hide-and-seek work,

  running to my hiding place

  so that he can receive

  two rewards—his handler’s praise

  and a treat, or a toy.

  Even the most experienced dogs

  love to do runaways

  just for fun,

  but they also need

  more difficult problems.

  It’s like they’re doing math,

  and they already know fractions,

  percentages, and word problems,

  so now they have to move on

  and try to master

  prealgebra.

  Dogs don’t separate reality

  from fantasy. It’s all the same,

  all work, all play. Imagine a world

  where homework is fun. That’s

  a dog’s world. Just thinking about it

  encourages me. Maybe there’s hope

  for a kid who hates numbers.

  Research for an online article

  about SAR dogs

  calms me too.

  It helps me feel safe to know

  that search-and-rescue volunteers

  practice all year, just in case

  someone gets lost.

  Even a stranger.

  Especially a stranger.

  Tío risks his life each time he goes out

  in wild weather, at night, in rough terrain,

  to search for a child or a thru-hiker.

  My uncle claims

  he’s not brave.

  He says there’s a fierceness

  that takes over his mind, giving him

  endurance and strength. He insists

  that anyone who has ever

  searched for the lost

  knows how it feels

  to be transformed

  into a Rescue Beast

  thinking of others

  instead of himself.

  Rescue Beasts are the opposite

  of werewolves. They’re people

  who turn into wilderness heroes

  instead of villains.

  There’s so much to know.

  Where do I start? Tío advises me

  to study the dogs, not the Beast.

  He shows me how there are two kinds

  of searches, area and trailing.

  Gabe is one of the few dogs trained

  to do both. When he zigzagged

  all over the apple grove, his nose

  was up in the air, searching for any

  human scent, any human at all.

  That’s called area work.

  Trailing work is different.

  It can only be done when there’s

  a PLS—a place last seen—a spot

  where someone saw the lost person

  right before she vanished.

  A trailing dog sniffs any object

  that carries the victim’s scent—a pillow,

  a jacket, a hat. Whenever there’s a PLS,

  Gabe searches on a long leash,

  like a bloodhound in a manhunt movie,

  nose to the ground, following only one

  set of footprints as he sniffs to match

  the smell of those tracks

  to the scent of the pillow.

  It’s eerie, thinking how easily we

  can get lost and how little of ourselves

  we leave behind. Sunglasses. A backpack.

  Winter gloves. After a week or two,

  even the unique smell of a person

  is gone. The place last seen is only

  fragrant and useful for a few days,

  or at most, a few weeks.…

  Thinking of lost people

  reminds me of Mom, but instead

  of letting me focus on loss,

  Tío goes into Rescue Beast mode,

  showing me how to concentrate

  on helping others. On SAR training days,

  a bunch of us gather in the forest, and I

  have my chance to help the dogs

  by hiding.

  First, I’m escorted to a hiding place

  by Tío, who gives me a two-way radio

  so I can call him for help

  if I get scared.

  He marks the spot on his GPS—

  a Global Positioning System gadget

  that uses beams from satellites

  out in space—to show him exactly

  where I am at all times, so that even

  if the most experienced dogs

  and their handlers

  happen to have a bad day,

  I’ll be found.

  So I’m safe, and the forest sounds

  are soothing, and there are squirrels

  and birds to keep me from feeling

  completely alone

  and I know that no matter how long

  I have to wait to be found, Gabe

  and the other dogs will take turns

  and while they’re searching,

  they’ll learn how to find

  real victims.

  Even though I enjoy all that oddly

  comforting quiet time, alone

  and relaxed in the wild,

  wondrous woods,

  I’m always relieved to hear

  the eager pop-pop-pop

  of a panting dog’s breath

  as it races toward me,

  helping me feel

  like such an important

  part of the heroic

  Rescue Beast

  team.

  12

  GABE THE DOG

  TEAMWORK

  All I need are my energetic nostrils

  so I can follow

  the hiding boy’s

  scent trail.

  As soon as I find Tony, I run back to alert my Leo,

  who follows close behind me, paying his own special

  human attention, with eyes and mind instead of a smart,

  twitching nose.

  At the end of our practice search, all three of us

  know
that we’ve done our best seeking

  and hiding.

  13

  TONY THE BOY

  LOSER

  I would hide in the wilderness

  forever if it meant avoiding

  prison visits.

  Mom’s arms

  are crisscrossed

  by new tattoos

  of paw prints.

  As long as I can remember,

  she’s always had a few

  dark blue designs

  on her skin

  but now there’s a mark

  for each fighting pit bull

  that ever won a battle

  and a teardrop

  for each dog

  that lost

  its life.

  Does she actually care

  about the dogs that lost fights?

  She used to call them losers,

  the same name she gave me

  each time

  I tried

  to turn away

  from the sight

  of blood.

  I hate visiting the prison,

  but each time Tío assures me

  that I don’t have to go, I always

  decide to give Mom

  one more chance.

  I don’t have much to say

  when she chatters

  on and on

  about all her new

  prison friends.

  I don’t even want her to know

  Gracie’s name.

  Or Gabe’s.

  I come away from those visits

  feeling like such a loser.

  If I turned into a tattoo

  on Mom’s face,

  I’d be

  a teardrop.

  14

  GABE THE DOG

  BOY TRAINING

  How do I train a boy? I try to show him

  how to be joyful just walking and running

  and chasing

  roundness

  but each time Tony goes back down

  to the flatlands

  he comes home smelling

  like sorrow.

  15

  TONY THE BOY

  LONELY SMELLS

  Prison visits are getting harder,

  but helping Tío and Gabe solve

  their search-and-rescue mysteries

  has given me a new way to face

  the mysterious side of math.

  Compared with trying to figure out

  how Mom’s weird mind works,

  school is almost easy.

  Numbers aren’t always scary anymore.

  They don’t have to remind me

  of mean men betting

  bad money

  at dogfights.

  I understand some types of problems,

  if I go slow and count trees or rocks

  instead of fangs

  and claws.

  Gabe tries to cure my worries

  with demands. He needs attention.

  I throw a tennis ball so many times

  that my shoulder gets sore.

  Then he wants to swim, dive, plunge,

  paddle, drip, and shake.

  All Labs love water.

  Gabe swims like a dolphin.

  I don’t.

  I’m terrified of depths. No one ever

  taught me how to laugh when I splash,

  so I sit on a creek bank while Gabe

  plays in the water, begging me

  to join him, begging me to leave

  my safe shore.

  Heart dry.

  Mind dusty.

  Over and over, I promise Gabe

  that someday, somehow, I’ll learn

  how to swim with him so we can be

  happy

  together.

  Back in the cabin, when the phone rings,

  I’m secretly glad that it’s a call-out

  for a search. I know I shouldn’t be glad

  that a stranger is lost, but I need a chance

  to show my uncle

  that I can be trusted

  to stay at base camp.

  This time, the subject of the search

  is a sad old man

  who drove uphill,

  far away from his room

  in a nursing home.

  He parked at a wilderness trailhead

  and started walking away from his life.

  A couple of Italian thru-hikers saw him

  when he got out of his car,

  so the driver’s-side seat

  is the place last seen.

  Gabe is on a long leash, working

  as a trailing dog. He sniffs the dusty

  upholstery, inhaling the old man’s

  hospital scent, a mixture

  of skin, soap, and medicine,

  along with invisible clues

  that only a dog’s nose can detect—

  adrenaline from excitement or fear,

  and probably all sorts

  of mysterious chemicals

  produced by loneliness

  and confusion.

  Gabe matches the smell on the seat

  to the only footprints

  on this rugged trail

  that were made by soft

  bedroom slippers

  instead of steel-toed

  hiking boots.

  I’ve learned to wait.

  Hiding in the woods has made me

  patient. Visiting Mom has helped me

  want to help others—the people who

  are willing to be helped.

  I know I can be useful to Tío

  by obeying his command to stay

  at base camp, which, as usual,

  is a sheriff’s van and a table where B.B.

  is in charge of deciding which

  dog teams, horse teams, ATVs,

  and ground pounders

  will search the areas

  not covered by Gabe.

  Gracie chatters, but I hardly listen,

  because I’m trying so hard

  to imagine what it must be like

  for Tío

  out there

  in the forest

  where the old man

  is lost.

  Where does he find

  his Rescue Beast courage?

  When I’m his age, will I know

  how to search?

  I wait for hours.

  By the time Gabe finds the old man,

  he’s hungry, dehydrated, weak,

  and grateful.

  He thought he wanted to die

  alone in the woods, but now he’s glad

  to be alive and surrounded

  by people who care.

  I’m happy for him, but I’m also

  happy for myself. In a small, quiet,

  satisfying way, by hiding out in the woods

  during training, I helped teach SAR dogs

  how to save lives.

  I also proved that I’m trustworthy.

  Tío ruffles my hair with his hand,

  and I grin when I imagine

  that if Gabe could praise me,

  he would probably shout,

  Good human!

  Instead, he rewards me

  with a ball-chasing game

  and the warm, brown

  roundness

  of his wise, happy

  dog eyes.

  16

  GABE THE DOG

  SNIFFING SCHOOL

  I search for the sad-scented old man.

  I find him.

  I win!

  Now Tony wants to learn all my search games, so I show him how my Leo teaches agility—

  crawl through tunnels

  climb up ladders

  leap onto a seesaw

  while

  it

  moves

  balance on a long, narrow beam don’t fall but

  if you do tumble don’t be afraid to try again

  and again and again.

  I can teach obedience,
too:

  Come! Sit! Stay! Down! Heel (always on the left).

  I also share what I know about NO.

  NO chasing squirrels.

  NO chasing rabbits.

  NO chasing deer.

  NO chewing boots.

  Finally, I teach Tony to see how I get along

  with other dogs, and I’m not afraid to jump

  right into a roaring, whirling HELO, the helicopter

  that takes me to other mountains

  for faraway search games …

  and when I’m through teaching

  all that I know

  about work-play

  it’s time to show the boy

  how we can both

  lie down and curl up

  and rest.

  17

  TONY THE BOY

  INSECT MATH

  There are so many ways

  to get lost. Each search is a surprise.

  One day, an experienced outdoorsman

  goes hiking alone, and when he doesn’t

  come home, his wife calls 911,

  and the sheriff calls Tío.

  By the time Gabe finds him,

  he’s feverish, his legs broken

  and infected from a fall.

  The next week, a teenage girl

  separates from her friends,

  promising to meet them

  at the far edge

  of a rocky slope.

  She’s hiking with flip-flops

  instead of boots.

  A tank top and shorts.

  No jacket, no warmth.

  She suffers hours of terror

  all night, and then a swift burst

  of relief

  when Gabe finally appears,

  collar bell rattling,

  orange vest glowing.…

  Tío runs close behind Gabe,

  offering the cold girl

  a space blanket,

  silvery and magical

  like moonlight.

  Panic. It’s the topic of my next

  online article. A lost person often

  runs in circles, following the same

  frantic pattern

  over and over,

  like an orbit around a planet

  of hope.

  Both Gracie and our teacher

  love the article. They tell me

  I’ve learned so much!

  It’s true. Gabe has helped me discover

  new things each day. Dog truths.

  People truths, too.

  For instance,

  there’s this one

  really great

  prison visit,

  the biggest surprise

  of my new life,

  because I never expected

  to be able to smile

  on the other side

  of that heavy gate.

  Mom looks cheerful,

  and she acts

  gentle.

  Her hair is supershort.

  She tells me she volunteered

  to cut it and donate it to Wigs

  for Kids with Cancer.

  She’s also started volunteering

  to read books out loud

 

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