A Dog Like Daisy

by Kristin O'Donnell Tubb

  “Stop that!” Mr. Victor says with a yank. His order is like walking on gravel. He snaps open the fruit and rubs it up and down the length of the leather. “This pepper will stop that chewing of yours.”

  But I’m too panicked to try and puzzle out what that means because I AM ATTACHED TO A GODFORSAKEN LEASH! Thirty days of this? I will surely die a slow, graceless death, tied up like an animal. I grab the leather between my teeth and—

  OH!

  OH! HOT HOT FIRE HOT OH!

  My tongue burns.

  My nose burns.

  My whole head burns.

  I rub my paws over my face.

  I drag my tongue and jaws across the grass.

  I sneeze.

  I sneeze again.

  I tug Mr. Victor over to a puddle and I lap up water.

  And then I stop.

  Because above me, Mr. Victor’s face shadows slowly shift to point up, not down. He’s wheezing. His heart beats rapidly.

  Is something wrong? Is he broken?

  And then he bares his teeth.

  My interaction with humans has been limited to one pack, but I do know that when a human bares his teeth, it isn’t a sign of aggression. No, for humans, showing teeth means yellow sunshine joy. It is a smile.

  And Mr. Victor is awkward at it, this smiling thing. His shadows curve at unused angles. This expression of his is dusty. It occurs to me that it is the first time I’ve seen him do it. It’s the first time I’ve seen anyone in this pack do it. Even not-a-pet Micah, who now peers out the window, is scowling.

  Come to think of it, this entire pack of humans is bad at it. Bad at smiling.

  I vow to change that. This pack needs more yellow sunshine joy.

  3

  INSTINCT IS YOUR BONES KNOWING

  My new pack is tagged “the Abeyta family.” Last night they gave me a pillow to sleep on next to Mr. Victor. A pillow! Like I’m royalty or something. And I don’t wish to sound spoiled, but the pillow was enjoyable. I forgive them for this silly luxury, though, because they also made me wear the leash while I slept.

  When I wake with the next sunrise, I stretch, squeal, smack my jaws. Anna winks at me. It worries me. I hope her eye is okay. Eye health is very important for survival.

  Mr. Victor and Micah and I ride in the glorious car again. I stick my head out the window and smell crisp burning leaves and bright yellow sunshine and deep, rich, diggable dirt. My fur tinkles like chimes in the wind. I decide that if I could pick one thing to do for the rest of my life, it would be to ride in a car and smell the world.

  We stop at a building that has no windows and the scent of a thousand dogs. Dreadful. Inside, the white floor is cold on my foot pads and makes my toenails click, the sound like raindrops on a metal Dumpster roof. It’s a sound full of concern. I worry that at this new place, I’ll be put in a cage again. I pull on the leash because if there’s one thing worse than leashes, it’s cages.

  But inside, the Awkward One tagged Alex is there. He looks at Micah. “Hey, bud.” His eyes slide to Mr. Victor. “It’s more effective if you train Daisy alone, you know. Having two of you here confuses her.”

  I purse my lips. Is that so? There is no doubt in my mind that Micah isn’t the one I answer to. He hasn’t even looked at me since yesterday’s scowl, and his voice is undrinkable water, like foamy puddles on the beach. He is not mine, and I am not his, and if it weren’t for the fact that he arrived in my pack before me, I’d question his usefulness.

  “I’m the one training her,” Mr. Victor says. Micah shrugs into a colorful thing that covers his ears. The thing has wires coming out of it that plug into the plastic box he holds. How dangerous it is, to block your hearing like that! I pull toward him to warn him, but Mr. Victor is gripping the leash. Micah sulks into a corner and pushes buttons on the box with his thumbs.

  “Okay, so.” Alex the Awkward claps his hands. The sound makes me jump because it echoes in this large, empty room like a metal truck rattling over a pothole. Alex squints at me. I squint at him.

  “Today we’re going to evaluate Daisy here using the SAFER assessment,” Alex says. He taps a clipboard, and I imagine small bursts of orange sparking off it. “This’ll let us see if she has the right temperament to be a service dog.”

  Alex knots his fingers together. “I should let you know, Victor, that there is no such thing as passing or failing a temperament test.”

  Whew. I can’t fail.

  “However, only about ten percent of dogs have the right temperament to become a service dog. And of those, only about thirty percent can actually pass the certification test.”

  Humans. They put so much stock in their numbers. There is much more to be said for instinct. Instinct is your bones knowing.

  “So . . .” Alex’s forehead lumps. “Odds are against your Daisy, here.”

  That Alex is a real thorn. His voice is the same color green as when I eat too much grass and throw up. And today he smells like burps.

  Alex drags out a clear box full of things. “What we’re looking for is a biddable dog. Easy to handle, eager to please. Soft. Mushy.”

  I am neither soft nor mushy, thank you. I vow to stop sleeping on pillows. People are getting the wrong impression.

  “If this assessment shows those qualities,” Alex continues, ignoring me, “I’ll recommend that she go forward with the training.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” Mr. Victor says, handing my leash over to Alex.

  Alex shrugs. His apathy for my future tastes like seaweed. “We can’t waste time on an untrainable dog, Victor. Or money. Ten weeks. That’s all we’ve got.” He snaps my leash. I shrink.

  Untrainable? Sounds messy. Like fluff ripped from a cheap toy.

  “I’ll walk her through this initial assessment, but that’s the only time someone other than you should handle Daisy,” Alex says. At that, Micah’s heart races. I can hear the squeak of his teeth clenching together, a sharp crack in the pavement.

  Does he want me to fail?

  Mr. Victor kneels next to me, rubs my neck. “You hear that, Miss Daisy?” he says, leaning toward my injured ear. “Show him your best, girl.”

  I promise, Mr. Victor.

  “Ah-ah-ah!” Alex says, yanking the leash backward. It surprises me and pulls me away from Mr. Victor. “The number one rule with dogs, Victor: always protect your face.”

  The number one rule with humans, Alex: always protect your pack.

  Alex walks me across the room. I don’t like walking away from my pack—I can’t protect them from across this big, smelly space. I pull against the leash. Alex isn’t my pack. I’m supposed to be with them.

  Alex clicks his tongue. “She’s not doing well with restraint. Her reaction to this leash isn’t positive.”

  Of course it’s not. Shall I retrieve a leash for you, fella?

  The shadows on Mr. Victor’s face darken. They are green on the edges, showing worry. Oh no.

  I try to relax. I huff. Sorry I wanted to put you on a leash, Alex.

  We walk a few laps around the room and stop. Alex nods. “Not too bad, Daisy, once you got used to it.” He starts petting me, then pulling at my skin and legs, each tug not unpleasant. I enjoy the massage until he gets to my injured ear. When he reaches for that, I stiffen and purse my lips. The hairs on my back rise.

  “Hmmm,” Alex says. “Her reaction to touch is overall fine. But she protects that ear, even though it’s healed.”

  No one touches that ear. No one.

  Mr. Victor’s face shadows pull farther down. Poo. Micah’s, on the other hand, lighten a tad. Double poo.

  I’m going to fail this test. They said I couldn’t fail, but I will. I’ll be the first. Mortifying.

  Will I go back to a cage?

  I don’t like toy lightning.

  I have to try harder.

  Alex starts jogging with the leash, so I trot to keep up. He bobs and weaves, so I do, too. He jumps, shouts, claps. The sounds he makes are like walking through s
piderwebs: confusing and sticky. I watch him calmly, trying to read clues if I’m supposed to react to this silliness.

  “Good, Daisy,” Alex says. To Mr. Victor, he says, “She’s fine with new experiences, like movement and sound.”

  Mr. Victor’s shadows lighten a bit. I smile. Micah shifts like he’s uncomfortable. Can no one else hear his teeth grinding? He’s going to break a tooth soon.

  Alex pulls out this huge pillowy thing that, when you look at it from the right angle, might resemble a human arm. Alex pokes me with the thing. Do they think I cannot tell the difference between a fake arm and a real one? I am very confused but I let him poke me with it. It smells like it’s poked ten thousand other dogs. Disgusting. Alex needs to invest in some cleaning solutions.

  “She doesn’t tend toward biting, which is excellent,” Alex says. I can smell Mr. Victor’s pride from across the room, a beefy, bloody pride. I’ve never been a fighter, so I’m happy that biting isn’t something this pack needs. Excellent, indeed.

  Alex the Awkward digs a bunch of stuff out of the clear box and tosses things around the room. He then walks me through the things. One of the things is a toy that quacks like a duck every few moments, spurting off bursts of purple. Annoying, but certainly avoidable. Another thing is a bacon treat. My mouth waters when we approach it, but I get the feeling I’m supposed to ignore it, based on the tension in the leash.

  “Nice job, Daisy,” Alex says. He turns to Mr. Victor. “Okay, last assessment. Let’s bring her into the next room to meet other dogs.”

  Mr. Victor’s heart speeds. His shadows darken again. “Other dogs . . . other people?”

  Alex softens his hold on the leash. I can tell he likes and respects Mr. Victor. It’s the only reason why Alex is tolerable, really. “They’re all veterans, too, Colonel. You’ll be fine.”

  Colonel?

  I can tell right away, by the taste of this word, that this is an important tag: colonel. It sounds like “kernel,” like airy popcorn, but it tastes like fine meaty sausage. Like a tag that Mr. Victor worked very hard to earn. It is useful. He is useful. I resolve to call him Colonel instead of Mister. I am mortified that I didn’t do so earlier.

  The Colonel and Micah and Alex and I cross the hallway into a new room. A group of six dogs and their handlers is gathered. Colonel Victor’s shadows flush a worrisome deep gray the moment we’re around other humans who aren’t in our pack. His heart quickens. He begins to sweat.

  Strangers make him as nervous as they make me.

  Micah seems to sense this. He slides his hand into the Colonel’s. The Colonel grips it, hard, but Micah doesn’t wince.

  Strong boy. Good instincts.

  Alex walks me into the room and past each dog.

  Guten tag, says a German shepherd mix when I trot by.

  Hello.

  A full-breed golden retriever is next. She doesn’t even sniff in my direction. She shakes her gorgeous glossy mane. I decide to ignore her, too. Snob.

  Next is a Great Dane—Hello, down there—then a Lab mix—Howdy-do—and then a standard poodle—Bonjour. Typical.

  Finally, a wiry-haired mutt who smells like beef treats leaps out at me. Hi, doll! Watch this! If I wrap around you, and you go over there . . . good! yes! Our leashes will get all tangled, and the humans will have to dance like puppets to unravel themselves. Watch! Ha-HA! DANCE, PUPPETS! That’s what you get for putting ol’ Hawkeye on a leash!

  Sure enough, Alex and the other human throw an arm here, a leg there, and are forced to twist and turn to balance themselves. “Whoa! Easy there, Hawkeye!” “Daisy! Steady!” Micah giggles at these shenanigans, small dandelions of laughter.

  Hawkeye takes a long and somewhat invasive sniff of me, then gives me a sloppy wet nudge with his nose. Thanks, doll. I always get a kick out of making the humans do that.

  Any other time, I think I’d enjoy these games. I’m not against fun. But I know today is important to Colonel Victor. I narrow my eyes at the mutt. It’s Daisy, not doll, you pig. And if you just made me fail this test, I’ll hunt you down and nip you in unpleasant places. Doll. I nudge him back.

  He laughs. Call me! He jangles the tag around his neck that lists his human’s telephone number.

  Back in the other room, Alex says, “Hmmm,” and, “Mmmhmmm,” while checking things on a piece of paper. His utterances sound like, well, there’s no other way to put this: bathroom noises. He slides his pen behind his ear, his mouth pursed to one side of his face. His expression reminds me of a hot dog: you’re never quite sure what you’re getting.

  “Victor, Daisy here is what I’d call right on the line.”

  “You mean she passed?” Colonel Victor lifts his chin at me, and my chest puffs with pride. I enjoy a squirrel-chasing thrill. Micah’s heartbeat flares.

  Hope or disappointment? Hard to tell. Why are my instincts so murky with that one?

  “No—there is no pass or fail,” Alex says. Killjoy. “She scored well in many areas, but not in others, at least with regard to the temperament of a service dog. I’m torn. And because this training is so rigorous and, well, so expensive, when I’m torn, my recommendation is no.”

  No.

  Alex continues: “The money you’ve received only pays for ten weeks of training. I worry that a dog like Daisy”—the way he says my name makes me picture a pile of writhing worms—“can’t be trained before the money runs out. You’d have to pay for her training past that.”

  “Well, that’s impossible,” the Colonel cuts in. His face shadows are still murky and distrustful after being around other humans who aren’t in our pack. He kneels beside me, grunting like rips of fabric. He lifts his tinted glasses to look me in the eyes.

  “Can you do this, Miss Daisy?”

  I’m still not whole-hog certain I understand what “this” is. I know it means I must be useful. But how? A service dog isn’t a pet, it seems. But I’ve already failed at being a pet once.

  I think so.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a full-breed dog, Victor?” Alex asks. “They can be much easier to train, and the assistance is still available. I think it’d be a smarter use of the money.”

  “No. I want a rescue dog,” Colonel Victor says, his gaze not leaving mine. His eyes are soft; his voice, like sand. We live near sand. I know that sand can build things up or wear things down. “I like the idea of rescue.” His pupils are wide, but his breathing is calm.

  “Can you do this, Miss Daisy?” he whispers again. “I need . . .” His words trail off like a lost scent.

  I straighten my back, my tail. Lift my chin.

  I can.

  Colonel Victor stands with a groan. “I’m sticking with Miss Daisy.”

  Micah’s thumbs slam against his plastic toy, small firecrackers of anger exploding.

  Disappointment from the boy.

  A pet, I am not.

  And now I’ve made a promise I hope I can keep.

  4

  IT’S A HUMAN’S WORLD

  The ride home isn’t glorious. My pack forgets to roll down the window, and we’re missing all the best smells, like the hot dog stand and the squishy, splashy mud puddles and the statue where the seagulls poo. I need to learn how to do it myself: roll down the windows.

  Micah slumps in the front seat, his head leaning against the glass. Those big, puffy plastic things still cover his ears. That kid is really trying to get doom’s attention, wearing those. What if a bear attacks?

  I pace the backseat, window to window, hoping one of them will magically open for me. I scratch at the glass with my paw. Whining sometimes helps open things, too, so I throw that in. Things just somehow OPEN for humans. It’s a human’s world. Maybe if I just keep trying. Nope. Let’s try that one. Nope. Let’s try this one. Nope. Let’s try that one. Nope. Let’s try this one. . . .

  “Daisy, cut it out,” Micah says over his shoulder. An icicle.

  I slump onto my seat, too.

  The car is quiet for a moment, then:
/>   Tweee.

  My head cocks to the side. It’s a small, high-pitched sound. Orange and annoying, a piece of food caught in my teeth.

  Micah adjusts in his seat. His scent changes briefly from stagnant to ripples.

  TweeeTWEEEE.

  Micah pulls off his ear coverings.

  “Dad! Dad, listen!” He puckers his lips.

  TweeTweeTweeTWEEEE.

  “I learned to whistle!”

  TweeTweetTweedle.

  The whistle makes me cringe because it is a toothache. My head cocks to the other side. Whistling is so high-pitched. It is involuntary, my head twisting like this, and it’s very, very annoying.

  TweeTweeTWEEETwee.

  Colonel Victor shudders. I hear, under the sound of the bothersome tweeing, Colonel Victor’s heartbeat speed up. His breathing speeds, too, and he begins panting, like when I’m too hot. He is seeing white. I can feel the white growing inside his head.

  Why isn’t Micah helping him?

  TweeTWEEEE.

  The car swerves. I fall over. Colonel Victor smells strongly of fear, a dark house full of nails and teeth.

  “Dad?”

  Help him, Micah! Be useful!

  The car veers, and another car honks red at us. It’s hard for me to stand on the swerving seat, but I do. I reach forward and nudge Colonel Victor on his bare arm with my cold, wet nose.

  His shadows lighten slightly. Dark gray, like ash.

  “Daisy, stop!” Micah yells. “Dad?”

  I keep nudging him. My bones tell me he can’t remember where he is. The car scrapes against the side rail of the highway, the sound of puppies crying.

  Wake up, Colonel. Wake up now. I push him as hard as I can with the top of my head. Colonel!

  “Daisy, cut it out!” Micah shouts at me.

  Colonel Victor’s hammering heart slows a bit. He shivers. Spits out a word as sharp as a tack.

  He swings the car to the side of the road. Stops the engine. Puts his head back and closes his eyes. His breathing is thin smoke, his heart quivering. But he’s returning to now. I can feel him coming back.