Mountain Dog

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Mountain Dog Page 6

by Margarita Engle


  I was

  the silent

  sullen

  one

  but now

  I’m noisy

  and vicious.

  Anger is like a disease.

  You can catch it.

  You can give it.

  24

  GABE THE DOG

  THE SMELL OF A VOICE

  When Tony yells into the phone,

  I run and hide

  in a dark

  closet—

  my cave.…

  I won’t come out. I won’t.

  Yelling isn’t like thunder, far away in high sky.

  Screaming is close. A shouting voice hurts.

  I feel the slap of each word

  as it spills

  the bitter odor

  of danger

  into my nose.

  25

  TONY THE BOY

  FOUND AND LOST

  Loser, loser, loser! I feel so terrible

  about scaring Gabe by yelling at Mom

  over the phone. I feel so horrible,

  so awful, so lost!

  But Gabe forgives me right away.

  He always forgives everyone.

  If Tío gets mad at him for breaking

  the No Chasing Squirrels rule,

  they make up quickly, but I never

  seem to get over things

  swiftly

  and easily

  like a trusting dog

  or a really smart

  grown-up.

  Why does 50 percent of my mind

  always seem to be stuck

  in unhappy mode?

  There’s only one way

  to take my thoughts away from

  Mom’s prison cell of rage.

  Searches. Finding the lost. Helping.

  My uncle tells me that before

  the invention of GPS gadgets,

  there were searches almost every day.

  Hardly anyone knew what to do

  with a compass and map, or how

  to navigate by the stars.

  Now, with GPS and fancy new

  satellite phones that can get a signal

  anywhere—even in the most remote

  wild places—lost hikers often call

  forest rangers

  to ask which trail to choose

  at a crossroads.

  With all the modern technology,

  wilderness searches are needed

  only once in awhile, but they’re

  still just as urgent as before.

  Life or death. All or nothing.

  One night, an autistic teenager

  wanders away from a cabin.

  The next week, two fishermen

  fail to find the trail back downhill

  from a high mountain lake.

  A Swiss thru-hiker is rescued

  when he gets disoriented

  from dehydration.

  There are crime scenes, too,

  searches so gross that Tío won’t

  let me hang out at base camp.

  All I know is what I hear later,

  when he and B.B. talk,

  holding hands.

  As soon as I see

  how their fingers

  touch

  I start to wonder

  what will happen to me

  if they

  get married.

  My uncle’s cabin is too small

  for all of us.

  How long will it be

  until he sends me away?

  Every time I start believing

  in safety,

  something happens

  that makes me feel

  like an old toothbrush

  in the lost-

  and-found

  box

  at school.

  Nobody wants someone else’s

  trash.

  26

  GABE THE DOG

  SHARING

  Tony smells

  so lonely

  that I try

  to share

  my food

  my water

  my toys

  but all he wants is company

  so I take him outside and we run

  round and round in dizzy circles

  until finally, we fall down

  and laugh

  together.

  27

  TONY THE BOY

  SHORELINES

  Summer turns into a season

  of mysterious migrations.

  One morning, there are thousands

  of bright red ladybugs.

  The next day, it’s shiny blue dragonflies,

  swooping across soft green meadows.

  Suddenly, only the tiniest spiders

  float overhead, each one dangling

  from a natural parachute

  of silky white web.

  Roaming wild creatures

  don’t worry about where

  they’ll end up, but I do,

  I really do worry, so when Tío

  invites me on a vacation road trip

  to a distant beach, I’m excited,

  but I’m also not sure how I feel

  about leaving the comforting

  mountains.

  We ride with open windows,

  Gabe and I both sniffing the breeze

  as we zoom right past the prison,

  turning west, then driving, gliding,

  until we finally reach the bright,

  endless ocean, and the warm,

  sun-gold sand.

  When Gabe chases shore birds

  into frothy waves, I follow, running

  and splashing, even though I know

  I’ll never be able to catch any creature

  with wings.

  I don’t even want to catch birds,

  but it feels so great to act like a tiny

  kid again, romping with new puppies

  that have never

  been hurt.

  Pelicans slide across the bright sky.

  Sea otters roll around on blue water.

  Everything is so peaceful

  that I wonder if it’s possible

  to feel sad and scared

  on any beach

  anywhere

  in the huge world.

  That night, under brilliant stars,

  I ask my uncle a question

  that I’ve wondered about

  for a long time.

  How did he feel when he floated away

  from his home island? What was it like,

  drifting on a raft in a storm,

  then wrecking, being washed ashore

  in a nameless place, without food

  or a dog.…

  I can’t picture my uncle before Gabe.

  They belong together—how did Tío survive?

  After a long, quiet moment, he speaks

  of his childhood on the troubled island

  where he had to be careful about rules.

  Strange rules. Censored books.

  Rationed food. Secret police.

  Neighborhood spies.

  By the time he was a teenager,

  he was in trouble with the authorities

  for buying bread on the black market

  and for reading forbidden stories

  and listening to outlawed radio stations

  that played illegal foreign music.

  Illegal music? No wonder my uncle

  and Mom both fled their homeland.

  Did she listen to the wrong songs too?

  Was she always a rule breaker?

  Was there a time when she knew

  which rules deserved breaking?

  Tío goes on to describe his parents—

  my grandparents. They aren’t alive

  anymore, but when I ask, my uncle says

  maybe someday he’ll be able to take me

  back to the island, to meet all my cousins.

  The story of Tío’s youth ends
<
br />   with his escape from the secret police,

  on a homemade raft, in hurricane season.

  Then the sea, the wreck, being stranded

  on that nameless spit of sand, and finally,

  surviving on rainwater, shellfish,

  and seaweed. After a fisherman

  found him, rescue became Tío’s passion.

  Nature had fed him, God and people

  helped him. He was determined to do

  the same for someone else.

  He received asylum in Florida,

  learned English, studied forestry,

  then worked in the Everglades,

  Yellowstone, and Yosemite,

  before choosing to patrol

  the most remote places

  along the Pacific Crest Trail,

  places that seemed almost

  as vast and perilous

  as an ocean.

  Wherever he went, he always

  experimented with wild foods

  and survival skills. He experimented

  with wild feelings, too, trying out

  different emotions

  the way people in cities

  try on clothes.

  He had to decide which feelings

  could be trusted

  and which ones would poison

  his mind.

  Anger was useless, fear deadly,

  and despair was the most dangerous

  emotion of all. He realized that hope

  was the only feeling strong enough

  to keep him alive.

  When Tío falls silent, I gaze up

  at beach stars, gather my courage,

  and ask about Mom.

  What was she like when she was little?

  Did she fight, was she cruel, did she care

  about people and puppies?

  My uncle’s answer makes me feel

  as clear and limitless

  as the starry sky.

  Mom was ordinary.

  Something changed her.

  But she could change back.

  And I’m not like her.

  I’ll always be free

  to be myself.

  28

  GABE THE DOG

  BEACH DREAMS

  Sleeping in a tent on the moon-bright sand

  I dream

  swim-run-swim

  and in the morning

  I can still smell the dreams

  of my Leo and Tony

  because they were swimming with me

  so that even alone on the water

  I was never

  alone.

  29

  TONY THE BOY

  WHEN ELEPHANTS JUMP

  By the time we drive back

  from our cool beach vacation,

  I’ve collected a few experimental

  feelings of my own

  along with sand dollars

  and seashells

  and a gooey bag of chewy

  saltwater taffy for Gracie,

  who’s due back from India.

  She arrives in a loud burst

  of hilarious jungle poem-stories

  about elephant sunscreen (mud)

  elephant pizza (squashed trees)

  and elephant dreams (jumping,

  because when they’re awake,

  elephants are the only mammals

  that can’t leap).

  After her welcome-home

  nonelephant pizza party,

  all I expect to do is sleep,

  but a call-out comes at midnight,

  and Tío takes me with him.

  I wait restlessly at base camp,

  wondering if I’ll ever master

  the frustrating art

  of patience.

  The lost person is a teenage boy

  with a homemade bow and arrow.

  There is no place last seen—so Gabe

  has to search a huge area, off leash

  and eager, as he races against time,

  because the boy is diabetic, and if he

  doesn’t get his medicine,

  he’ll die.

  His family brings candles, food,

  flowers, and a makeshift altar.

  They pray in a language I can’t identify.

  The women wear colorful dresses,

  and somehow, the worried men

  manage to look strong

  and helpless

  at the same time.

  The search goes on and on,

  but this time, Gabe isn’t the hero.

  A helicopter pilot makes the find,

  spotting the lost boy from midair.

  Exhausted but happy, Tío assures me

  that search and rescue is teamwork,

  not individual

  glory.

  Still, as I think about how hard

  Gabe tried, I can’t help but wonder

  if SAR dogs ever feel

  discouraged.

  Lately, my mind is so full

  of questions

  that there doesn’t seem to be room

  for answers.

  Wondering and wishing are all

  I can manage at Cowboy Church,

  where I try and try to pray

  for Mom …

  but end up feeling

  like wondering and wishing

  are better than seeing her

  or opening her hopelessly

  angry letters.

  Now I know

  how elephants must feel

  in between their lively

  jumping dreams

  while they’re awake

  and limited

  to plodding.

  30

  GABE THE DOG

  MY WISHFUL NOSE

  I’m not discouraged, just tired

  and restful.

  My nose has wishful moods

  when the nostrils imagine sniffing

  adventurous smells that I can’t quite name

  with my dog-words.

  Tony, you look wishful too.

  Does your boy nose dream

  of exploring wild scent trails

  in unknown air?

  31

  TONY THE BOY

  DOG YEARS

  Summer is the best cure

  for worries. I’m so tired and relaxed

  from swimming, hiking, playing

  dog games, and learning bear facts

  that I can almost sleep

  straight through one whole

  nightmare-free night.

  Maybe that’s why my dog nose blog

  grows more confident

  and number-rich

  each day,

  as I learn that people shed 40,000

  skin cells per hour, creating a trail

  of scent that a long dog nose

  can follow, using all 230 million

  scent receptors—100,000 times more

  sniffing ability than the amount

  of smell-skill in a short human nose.

  It sounds like magic,

  but it’s science.

  If I want to study wildlife biology,

  or forestry, or veterinary medicine,

  I’ll need plenty of courage

  to explore the tangled

  wilderness of math.

  So I try to copy Gabe’s way of facing

  each day with the energy of a dog’s

  excitement about work-play.

  When I hide for SAR dog practice,

  I notice the way all dogs love

  adventure, but they also need to know

  what to expect. Border collies

  try to herd me, German shepherds

  guard me, and Labs like Gabe

  just love to fetch me.

  I’m still trying to figure out how

  playful dogs turn into such fiercely

  loyal Rescue Beasts

  while having so much fun.

  Is there a mathematical formula

  to explain generos
ity?

  Tío and the other volunteer

  SAR dog handlers are just as amazing.

  They have normal jobs in forests, shops,

  and offices, but as soon as they reach

  a place last seen, they start to seem

  like people from a different century—

  a time when anyone could get lost

  in the wild, and everyone always

  joined the search posse.

  I want to be just like them.

  I crave that brave combination

  of beastly toughness

  and rugged kindness.

  It’s like moss on a boulder,

  hard and soft at the same time,

  the same blend I’ll need if I’m ever

  going to be a smart animal doctor

  who knows how to cure

  wounded dogs.

  With thoughts of college and vet school,

  I start seeing regular school

  as important.

  The new semester is a challenge

  I almost feel ready to face.

  Same classroom, same teacher,

  same friendly students,

  but I hardly recognize the girls.

  They look a lot older, and they act

  all giggly—even Gracie, who has grown

  supertall, weirdly shy, and surprisingly

  pretty.

  But girls aren’t my only confusion.

  On September 15, the first day

  of Hispanic Heritage Month,

  the teacher asks me to speak

  to the whole class about my family

  and their origins.

  But I wasn’t born on the island.

  I’m American.

  I barely know any Spanish.

  How can I tell quaint, folksy tales

  about fiestas, feasts, cousins,

  and grandmas.…

  I won’t do it.

  I don’t belong.

  Not here.

  Or anywhere.

  I can’t belong.

  Ever.

  When I refuse to speak,

  the teacher says she understands,

  but then Gracie jumps in

  and invites Tío to talk in my place.

  He agrees, but only after asking me

  if it’s okay. I do mind. I mind a lot,

  but I don’t want to hurt his feelings,

  so I keep my anxiety

  secret.

  I find myself listening with laser-sharp ears

  as Tío tells the whole class about his life.

  My eyes feel blurry, and my mind

  has left the room. All I can think about

  is Mom hungry, Mom scared,

  Mom on a raft, drifting.…

  Why didn’t I ever ask about

  her childhood?

  If I ask now, will she answer

  and if she does, will her answers

  be honest?

  My birthday is coming soon—maybe

  that will be the perfect chance to try

  to get to know more

  about Mom’s weird past …

  but on the day when I finally

  turn twelve, there’s no card or call,

 

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