by Linda Coggin
It’s good not being afraid. If I were Cyril, I probably would be. But I’m here to protect him. After all, that is the deal. I give Cyril and his family devotion and loyalty, and they feed me, walk me, and love me back. Well, that is how it is supposed to work.
“I don’t think you’ll be needing that phone anymore,” one of them says, and steps toward us to take it. I growl again, louder. It’s a strange, angry, how dare you? sort of noise that scrapes the back of my throat.
The boys back off, and I add a snarl and bare my teeth for show. It is very effective.
An old man, who was sitting on another bench a little farther along, gets up and walks toward us.
“You all right, son?” he asks Cyril.
Son? I think. This man doesn’t look like Cyril’s dad, unless Cyril’s dad has gone out in disguise. For a start, he is much older and has shabby clothes on. Cyril’s dad would not be seen dead without his suit on and one of his awful novelty ties.
No. This man is definitely not Cyril’s dad.
“Get out of here!” he says to the group of boys.
“All right, old man. Keep your hair on!” one of them shouts, and they pull their hoodies over their eyes, dig their hands deep into their pockets, and stroll off, laughing. We all watch them go. I notice Cyril has sweat patches under his arms. I want to feel good about him, lick him to say it’s OK, but I can’t help thinking that if he’d taken me for a real walk none of this would have happened.
“That’s a fine-looking dog,” the old man says, ruffling my ears. I like that. Having my ears ruffled. I roll onto my back. I also like having my tummy tickled.
Well, S-O-R-R-Y. But I do. It’s a dog thing.
“What’s her name?”
Cyril remains silent. He’s probably still in shock, and I’m pretty sure that his mother has told him not to speak to strangers.
“Well, go on, Cyril, tell him my name!” I say.
“Misty,” Cyril mutters, looking over his shoulder in case his mother can see him.
“Mr. T? That’s a funny name for a female.”
“Misty. The dog’s name is Misty.”
“Ah,” replies the old man.
He rests himself on the bench and we all sit in silence for a while. Then Cyril gets up and starts to drag me home. I don’t want to go. I like this man. His face is weather-beaten and wrinkled, and he has the bluest eyes. Besides, I think it’s rude to go when he has just helped us out. Shouldn’t we be inviting him back for a cup of tea?
“Thank you!” I say to him as Cyril yanks me away. “For getting rid of those boys.”
It’s the next day, and we are back in the park. Cyril is looking anxiously around in case the boys are there again. Then he does something he has never done before. He ties me to the park bench and goes away! I sit there waiting for him to return. After all, I am a dog and loyalty is in my bones.
I check out the area. There is something lying on a bench farther down the path. It is like a huge bundle of clothes. It moves a bit, stretches, and sits up. It is the old man we met the day before! He has a few bags, which he collects together, and then he slowly stands up, puts his hand on his back, and rubs it.
When he sees me he walks toward me, and I wag my tail like mad. I like this man. My tail feels as if it is attached to a motor. It goes around and around, and I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.
“Hello, girl,” he says, rubbing my head like he did before. “Has that boy left you here?”
He sits down on my bench.
“It’s a fine day, isn’t it? Why aren’t you out on a nice long walk, eh?” He chuckles. “It’s a grand world out there; you don’t want to be spending your time tied to a bench.”
I totally agree with him. I want to tell him about my circumstances, but just a funny little whimper comes out and takes me by surprise.
“I used to know a dog like you. He was a spirit dog. Dogs with two-colored eyes are believed to be spirit dogs. They guide people. Don’t go near a farm, mind you. Farmers hate spirit dogs. You’ll freak the animals out. It’s your eyes, see. No, you won’t be popular if you go to a farm. I bet you’re a good companion, though.” He goes on. “That boy shouldn’t just leave you tied to a bench. It’s not right. I’d take you with me if I could, old girl. But I don’t want no trouble for stealing a dog. And it would be a hard life for you. I bet you’ve got a nice warm bed on some sofa somewhere.”
“No, I haven’t! I live in a doghouse! I’d love life on the road. I went on a hiking trip with Mom once and it was great!’
He nods sympathetically.
When he sees Cyril returning, the old man stops stroking my ears. He picks up his bags and shuffles off. He moves slowly, as if his feet cause him pain. I watch him as he goes down the path, his words jumping excitedly in my mind. A spirit dog. I like the sound of that.
And this is when I hatch the Plan.
I spend most of my time lying in my doghouse thinking about the Plan. Sometimes I’ll think about the Plan with my eyes shut and sometimes I’ll think about the Plan with my eyes open. But all the time I am thinking, planning, and plotting. And sometimes I’m worrying about Mom and Dad. I hope Dad hasn’t lost his hearing in the accident, because he loves music. He loves the Beatles, but he loves one type of music in particular: modern jazz.
When I was little he taught me the names of his favorite jazz musicians. I didn’t know who any of them were, they were just names, but I remembered them for him because it seemed to make him happy.
I know it seems as if dogs sleep a lot. But it’s a fact, in my experience, that there is a lot more going on. When dogs are truly asleep, they dream. And when they dream, it is of running through open fields filled with wildflowers, chasing rabbits or deer. You can see their paws twitching sometimes because in their dream, they are running so fast they are almost flying.
But I’m not usually dreaming about that sort of thing. Maybe that sort of dream will come more often later. Mostly, I am dreaming about being home and Mom and Dad.
Once I dreamed I was at my funeral.
I was in a white coffin on an altar and it wasn’t in the local church, it was in a huge cathedral with enormous stained-glass windows. It was dark in the cathedral, but the sun was streaming through the colored glass like spotlights and fell onto the coffin. It was like being at a school dance. In this dream I started to dance in the coffin, and the best thing about the dream was that I was dancing with Owen Taylor!
And although I was inside the coffin, I was also sitting in a pew, observing it all.
A small brown creature stepped into the aisle in front of me. At first I thought it was a fox. It had a long tail with a white tip. It trotted up the aisle and jumped into my coffin. And just before it jumped in, it turned and looked at the me who was sitting in the aisle. It wasn’t a fox. It was me — as a dog.
Anyway, the Plan is simple, but it does need a lot of thought.
The Plan is to escape!
The Plan is to escape and find my dad and be his spirit dog, like the old man said. I liked the idea of being a guide dog. Being a guide dog was going to be awesome.
You don’t have to be blind to have one. I’d seen people who use wheelchairs with guide dogs. In fact, I’d watched a show on television about them. One particular dog — a Labrador, I think — could do ninety different tasks. Ninety! It could do things like take its human’s wallet out and give it to the cashier at the store. Fetch keys and other useful things. Go and get help if needed. Take the laundry out of the dryer. Well, I could do all those things. And I’d hang the laundry on the line, as well. And I’d sort it. And the best thing of all is that I could be back home again with Mom and Dad! Just like it used to be. Well — almost. Maybe they’ve kept my old room just like it was and I can sleep on the bed. I don’t think they’d be too strict about that. And I could go and fetch the paper in the morning and sit by Dad all day long and watch those black-and-white movies he so enjoys.
Sometimes when I’m thinking about
the Plan my tail will begin to wag all by itself. Thump, thump on the floor of my doghouse. I am happy in my thoughts. And this is how I spend my time. Sometimes with my eyes shut. And sometimes with my eyes open.
Of course, it’s all very well making a Plan. And it’s all very well thinking about a Plan. But it’s another thing making it happen.
First — I have to escape.
Second — I have to find my way home.
And third, I don’t have the faintest idea where I am.
I figure my old home must be somewhere near Cyril’s house — say within a radius of fifty miles. I know this because I read about my death in a newspaper. And only local newspapers would bother to make such a big thing of it. You know, the pictures and the captions and the reminiscences.
“She was such a lovely girl,” said a neighbor. “Always very helpful. Especially with my mail.”
Especially with my mail! I only took a package in for her once! Why couldn’t she have said something about me being able to ride my bike standing on the crossbar and seat with no hands?
“She was such a lovely girl. So acrobatic. Do you know, she would ride her bike standing on the crossbar and seat with no hands? AND she helped me with my mail.”
But even if I have to travel fifty miles, I still have to escape first.
Cyril has begun to make a habit of leaving me tied to the park bench. I suspect his mother has seen him leaving me in the garage. Really I just want someone to play with me. I’m spending too much of my time being tied up.
I keep a lookout for the old man. Sometimes I can see him across the park, looking in the trash can, and sometimes he just appears, as if he’s stepped out of thin air. Either way, my tail seems to notice him first, and it wags and wags. It must be funny to be a dog without a tail. I guess you just wiggle your bottom end.
He always comes and talks with me when Cyril’s not there. He’s told me how he used to have a dog when he was younger and how he misses the company now. But I want him to tell me if he has a family, and why he’s sleeping in the park.
One day he’s sitting on my bench as if he’s waiting for me.
“Don’t mind me,” he says to Cyril as we go past. “I’ll watch the dog for you if you like.”
But Cyril hurries on and leaves me at another bench.
“Over here!” I shout as soon as Cyril is gone. “I’m behind the tree!”
The old man picks up his bags and ambles over. I notice that he’s short of breath when he sits down.
“Well, old girl. I must be moving on. It’s soon going to be too cold for sleeping in parks. I’ll miss our little chats. Just wanted to say good-bye to you and wish you a good life.”
He fumbles in his pocket and produces half a mint. It has some fluff clinging to it and it is a little squished, but it is delicious and it makes my breath smell like a candy store.
When Cyril comes back he tells me to stop whining and pulls me roughly by the leash.
But I am crying because I won’t see the old man again. I watched him leave the park, and when he got to the gate he turned around and gave me a wave. I feel like I’ve lost my only true friend.
After that, the park doesn’t seem the same. I notice the trees are dropping their leaves. Perhaps they are feeling as sad as I am. I lie there and look up at the sky. It looks just like the jigsaw puzzles my aunt gave me for my birthdays that seemed to be nothing but sky, only none of the pieces are missing. I don’t know where she got them, but there was always just one piece missing.
“Never mind, Daisy,” she’d say. “Don’t waste your time looking for the missing piece. Just see the picture as a whole. I expect that missing piece is down behind someone’s sofa.”
I am lying down under the bench, wondering why people couldn’t put their trash in a barrel and wishing that the old man would come back, when I hear a dog barking somewhere in the park.
“Watch out!” he barks. “Danger!”
I get up to have a better view, and sure enough, I see Danger strolling along the path with their hoodies pulled over their eyes and their hands dug deep into their pockets. It is the group of boys. They stop by the dog who was barking. He must be old, because I don’t think he’s tied to a bench, yet he’s not running away. He’s standing his ground and keeps barking at them. One of the boys looks as if he’s going to run at the dog but instead takes a well-aimed kick. His boot hits the side of the dog, and he rolls over and yelps. Part of me wants to go over and help, and the other part of me feels scared of the boys and what they may do to me. I hear them laughing as the dog limps hurriedly away. I think they’re going to follow him and kick him again, but then one of the boys sees me, tied to the bench, and points at me.
They start to walk toward me, pushing and jostling one another as if they are choosing which one will kick me. My paws begin to sweat and my heart is pounding in my chest. I’m not hanging around for that.
I try to run, but Cyril has tied some fancy knot he learned at Boy Scouts and the more I pull, the tighter my leash becomes. The boys are so close now I can smell what they’ve had for breakfast. I pull back on my haunches and flatten my ears tight against my head. The collar suddenly slips off over my nose, and I am away. I don’t stop to look behind me. I just run. I have never run so fast. There is no ball to chase, just open park, and as I run the wind catches my ears and they stream out behind me. I have left those boys a long way back. Full of relief, I bark with joy.
“I’m free! I’m free!”
And all the other dogs in the park, all those dogs in their collars and leashes, answer me.
“Good luck!” they bark, and I am through the park gates and out into the world.
I run past Cyril’s road, behind the back of the school, and out into open scrubland. I have never run so fast, or so far. Ms. Roberts would have been proud of me. As I run, birds on the ground fly up into the air, and I shout at them just to scare them a bit more. I run through a patch of dandelions and my tail catches their seed heads and they float upward in the breeze. I splash through a small stream and run through some woods. I have never felt so free.
I come to a halt on the outskirts of a suburb, my tongue hanging out and my whole body panting. It is getting dark. I have no idea where I am and I am tired and hungry. I sniff the air. Some rabbits have been nearby, but there’s no sign of them now. I’d like to see a rabbit. Not to eat. I’m OK about not eating at the moment, but I would like the company. Any sign of life would do right now. I feel so lonely. The joy of running away and being free has left me. I miss Mom and Dad more than ever.
It’s funny how little things can cheer you up, though. I find a bush and clear out a bed from underneath. Around and around I turn. How good it feels not to be inside that doghouse.
I keep on turning until finally I flop down and sleep. And I dream a real dog dream. My legs must have been twitching. I run through the open fields, but there are no wildflowers. And it is me who is being chased. First by the group of boys and then by Cyril’s mom. She is in the pink dress and she is yelling at me as she speeds across the ground.
“Come back at once, Misty! I paid good money for you!” But I keep on running, and when I wake up I am as tired as when I went to sleep.
It is probably about six in the morning. I guess this because I can hear the song of the birds. I yawn and stretch. I am thirsty as well as hungry. I wander out onto a patch of grass and lick the dew off it. I prick my ears. I can hear the rumble of a garbage truck and the occasional van thundering along a road somewhere. I have to say, my hearing is fantastic now. There will be signs on that road, I think. Perhaps I’ll recognize some of the names.
I trot off toward a small row of shops. There is no one in sight and I have a good dig through the barrels that have been left out for collection.
Urgh, this is disgusting!
Imagine being reduced to this. Looking for people’s leftovers. I find some fries in a bag and a slice of stale bread. They don’t smell too bad, so I wolf them down. In th
e next barrel there is half a McDonald’s hamburger. Mom never let me eat junk food. It tastes good. What have I been missing all this time? I’m going to make a habit of going through garbage cans in the future.
The sound of traffic is getting louder now and there seem to be some signs of life. The newsstand opens its doors and a boy on a bike wheels up to collect his newspapers. I’m surprised how pleased I am to see him and I wag my tail. When he sees me, however, he pushes his bike toward me.
“Scram!” he says. “Go away! Leave me alone!”
I remember that a lot of dogs like to frighten newspaper boys and mail carriers and for a moment — only a moment — I can see the temptation to grab the bottom of his pants and give them a little tug.
“It’s OK,” I say. “Why would I hurt you? I’m just a little hungry. You don’t have a mint or something by any chance, do you?”
“What’s all that barking?” A man in an apron comes out of the shop and hands the boy a big bag of newspapers.
“Get!” he says to me. “Dumb dogs! Always going through the trash and getting it in the street.’
“Actually, I haven’t done that,” I say. “Sorry, though. Have you got a spare mint or anything? Not bubblegum, though, because it makes my jaws stick.”
“Go, I said! Stop that barking.”
And the man picks up an old Coke can lying on the sidewalk and throws it at me. I manage to dodge out of the way and run off, my tail between my legs. I try to move with purpose, as if I know perfectly well where I’m going. I don’t, but you can’t afford to dawdle if you’re a dog on your own.
When I’m out of sight I slow down. There is a strong smell of cat. I can feel my heartbeat quicken. I see it, farther along the road. It is a long-haired tabby and it is sitting, lazily washing its paws. I like cats. I like their independence. I like the feeling when they choose your lap, above all other laps, to sit on. Yes, I like cats. Normally. But this cat reminds me of Jessica Warner and how she would preen in front of the mirror in the school bathroom. I hated Jessica Warner. She wore her uniform skirt rolled at the waist so it ended six inches above her knee because it looked cooler that way. And she was always flicking her hair from side to side.