Sparky Helps Mary Make Friends

by Caryn Rivadeneira

  We didn’t just do our training on the farm, either. Sometimes we went to airports and got on airplanes. Sometimes we went to shopping malls. Sometimes we went to schools or churches. Lots of times we went to hospitals and sat still and calm while alarms sounded and people rushed around and the air fizzled with nerves.

  On my last day of Helper Hounds U, the day I took my big exam, Tasha brushed my hair and kissed my head. Tasha prayed “we” would be calm and do well so that we could help others. But I was already calm as could be.

  Mr. Tuttle met us outside the ring. He had a clipboard and a pen in his hands. I could hear the scratch on the paper as I went through my exercises. Perfectly, I might add.

  At the end of my exam, Mr. Tuttle nodded and went into the Helper Hounds office. He came back out with a red vest and a name tag in his hands.

  “Congratulations, Tasha,” Mr. Tuttle said. “You did a great job. He’s wonderful.”

  Tasha knelt down and hugged me hard. Then she scratched me all over and reminded me what a Good Dog I was. As if I’d forgotten.

  But I wanted Tasha to know what a Good Human she was, so I jumped and kissed her and wrapped my paws around her waist. Helper Hounds really weren’t supposed to jump, but this was a party!

  Tasha got a new name tag too: one with a picture of her and me on it this time.

  Tasha cried when she put the old name tag—the one of her and a dog named Noser—in her drawer. But I knew just what to do. My very first job as an official, name-tag-wearing Helper Hound was to lean into Tasha as she cried. I snuggled close and then licked her face. She laughed. I barked. I helped!

  Today, as a proud member of the Helper Hounds, I travel all over the place—sometimes by car, sometimes by airplane, sometimes with Robber, Peach, and the other Helper Hounds, and sometimes with just Tasha. We help people who need a little love or encouragement or just a dog to cry on or to pet.

  Being a Helper Hound is better than rounding up sheep all day. It’s better than solving mysteries. Being a Helper Hound is the Best Job Ever. I get to do what I’m good at and I’ve learned so many cool tricks. Which I get to teach other people—like Mary! Let’s get back to her story.

  CHAPTER 5

  I smelled the muffins before Tasha stopped the car. Peanut Butter! Banana. Flour. Eggs. All still warm.

  Drool puddled on the seat in front of me.

  “Oh, Sparky,” Tasha said. She grabbed a towel and wiped my mouth. She’d already brushed my fur and my teeth before we left the house. “Good hygiene is good manners.”

  Good advice. But the reason I’m good at making friends isn’t because my smile sparkles and my fur shines. I’m good at making friends because I make other people smile and other people shine.

  Since people do smile when they see my shiny fur, I knew I’d teach Mary this trick.

  I wanted to run straight to the door—to the muffins and to Mary. But Tasha had me on my leash. So after I stopped to pee on a nice patch of raccoon-scented grass, I walked nicely, right at her side, all the way to the big green door.

  Tasha rang the bell. Bing bong bing bong. Bong bing bong bing.

  I waited to hear a bark. I always bark at the bell. It’s exciting. A doorbell means I’m about to charm some new friends.

  No one barked. But someone did purr. Uh oh.

  The hair down my spine stood straight up. Turns out the only creatures I’m not good at making friends with are cats. I don’t know what it is about them, but cats never like me. Probably because they sense my smarts. Cats like to think they’re smarter than dogs. They may be smarter than some dogs, but not this dog.

  I sniffed under the door. The cat smelled young. And like peanut butter…muffins! Wait. Were those muffins for her? I was hoping they were for me!

  “Coming!” a woman’s voice yelled from inside. Feet shuffled on a carpet behind the green door.

  I sat. My tail wagged.

  The door opened.

  A gray cat sat on the other side. Her green eyes lasered into mine.

  My tail stopped wagging for one moment. But one moment only.

  Because just behind the cat was Mary.

  No matter how badly I wanted to chase this cat, or at least give her a little peek into my strong canine teeth, that wasn’t a good model of making friends for Mary. And I was here for her. I was here to help Mary make friends.

  And that green-eyed, peanut-butter-banana-muffin-smelling cat was going to help me do it.

  CHAPTER 6

  But first, I was going to help Mary settle down. Relaxing and believing it’s going to be OK is the second trick for making new friends. When we get too nervous, we forget to believe in ourselves. That’s why settle down is the second trick for making new friends.

  Humans don’t usually know this, but dogs can smell your nervousness. We can also hear your heartbeats—especially when they speed up. But smell is the main thing.

  Fear and anxiety smell a little like sweat. They smell a lot like gasoline. Like if you pump gas into your car on a real hot day. Well, sort of. It’s hard to explain.

  But anyway, that’s what Mary smelled like when she walked into the hallway and shook Tasha’s hand. More than the banana. More than the peanut butter. More than anything, I smelled Mary’s nervousness. That’s how I knew she needed to settle!

  So I showed her how. My settle command has always been perfect, as you probably guessed.

  I scooted in closer. Mary knelt down to pet me. I sat statue-still and slowed my panting—the perfect settle. But I swished my tail gently across the tile floor. That showed her the “It’s gonna be OK” part. (My super-stiff tail tells you we’ve got something to worry about!)

  “So you’re the famous Sparkplug,” Mary said.

  Holy cow! Mary’s voice was the best. Low with a little crackle. Like a young frog I caught once back on the farm.

  I answered Mary with my paw and a snout-to-the-sky bark. This is always a crowd-pleaser.

  The cat wasn’t pleased, though. She slinked around the corner into the dining room. I sniffed after her. Is that where the muffins are?

  I started to follow that cat, but Tasha called me into another room. Tasha sat on a cushy sofa.

  I wanted to hop up next to her like I do at home. But when my vest is on, I stay on the floor. Those are the rules. According to Tasha, second impressions matter just as much as first ones.

  Mary and her mom sat in high-back chairs across from us. Mary’s leg bounced. Her fingers folded into each other, like she was praying.

  Tasha pulled a folder out of our Helper Hounds bag and leaned it over to Mary. Every Helper Hounds visit starts with the folder. The folder is the most boring part of a Helper Hounds visit. I wish we could skip the “paperwork,” as Tasha calls it, and just get to playing and snuggling together.

  But Tasha says the folder is important. She reminded me of this when I rested my head on her knee and gave her “the look.” Tasha thinks a scratch behind the ears is a good reminder to hold tight, to relax, and to do my Good Dog settle.

  Tasha is right. Scratching always helps me be patient.

  And that glossy 8 × 10 headshot of me inside that folder is really handsome. Like Movie Star Handsome. As Tasha talked and talked and talked and as Mary’s mom sifted through the papers—pausing and smiling at the picture—and scratched a pen across a couple of the papers, my eyelids drooped. My body slid to the floor. My tags clanged on the wood floor between my paws.

  I figured I might as well get a power-nap in and model some mindful relaxation for Mary.

  “Is this boring?” I heard someone ask. Mary. She scooted up next to me and ran her hand down my back. I turned my head for a quick lick. Blech. Hand-sanitizer. Why humans insist on washing their hands so much I will never know. But I licked her one more time because I like this Mary so much. And because, yes, it is boring. This Mary knows her
stuff!

  I put my head back on the floor. Mary still needed to work on her settle. And you know what helps a human settle down and relax? Petting a dog! It’s true. We learned it at Helper U. Every time a person scratches a dog’s back or rubs a dog’s tummy, “happy hormones” hit the person’s brain and they feel better. Here’s the cool thing: It makes dogs feel better too. Petting a dog is a real win-win.

  Sure enough, each time Mary’s hand ran down my back, the gasoline-smell of her nervousness grew fainter and fainter. I heard her heartbeat slow down too.

  Mary settled down. Me too. I dozed off. But that doesn’t matter. The smell of fresh peanut butter-banana muffins woke me right up.

  CHAPTER 7

  The peanut butter-banana muffins were for me! Mary’s mom found a recipe that worked well for humans and dogs. (Not cats though. Ha!)

  Amazing. This is the best family.

  After the humans ate one and I ate two—and then tried to sneak a third—Mary asked if she could show me her room. Sounded good to me!

  Tasha said sure. But before we left, Tasha showed Mary the hand commands for “sit,” “down,” and “do-si-do.” Mary performed the commands pretty well. I, of course, played the game perfectly.

  Then Mary patted her leg and said “Sparky” in a higher-pitched version of her scratchy voice. We were off. I let her go first up the stairs. Not because I don’t know where her room was—I could smell the hand sanitizer a mile away—but because it is considerate to let new friends go first.

  That’s Good Manners. (See: Trick #1.)

  But halfway up the stairs—the part where the steps turn sharp to the left—we hit a snag. A cat-shaped snag, to be exact.

  The gray cat smelled like tin foil and chicken. She arched her back and hissed like the cobra I’d seen on a TV show called Scariest Snakes on Earth with Tasha.

  I stepped back. This cat was really scary!

  Mary bent down toward the cobra-cat and slipped a hand under its arched tummy.

  “Oh, Custard.”

  Custard! I’ve had custard—well, a few licks anyway. Custard is soft and sweet. That cat was no Custard!

  But this was my big chance. If I was going to show Mary how to make new friends—and I was—I needed to show that I could be not afraid.

  I put a front paw forward. Then a back paw. Two paws later, all four were square on the same landing as Mary and Custard, the Cobra-Cat.

  I sat my Good Dog Sit and swung my tail into a wag. My tongue drooped out of my mouth.

  Mary lowered Custard to where I sat and said, “See, Custy? This is Sparky. Isn’t he sweet?”

  I made my best silly face. There was no way this cat wouldn’t want to be friends!

  But Custard just laser-beamed me with her eyes again. She wanted me to look away. I knew it.

  But my mind game was better than hers. I kept my loopy face, but I stared right back. You will be my friend, Custard. You will be my friend. If for no other reason than because I really want to help Mary!

  I wish Learn to Read Minds could be Trick #3. But all my practice on Tasha has shown me humans will never quite master this. But cats? That’s another story. They get it. When Custard unleashed her claws and swiped a paw at me, I knew: Custard read my mind.

  Still, Custard was a tough cat to crack. Time to whip out some more Make New Friends Tricks.

  “Be a nice girl,” Mary said to Custard. “Let’s go to my room and see if we can’t all make friends.”

  Custard hissed at me again. I ignored her. I loved Mary’s idea. Learning to make friends was the whole reason I was there, after all.

  So I got to it. Took off running. I beat everyone up the rest of the stairs and trotted right toward Mary’s room. I waited for her at the door.

  “How’d you know which room was mine?” Mary asked. (It was early in our friendship. She didn’t know of my brilliance yet.)

  When Mary opened the door, I rushed past her, which wasn’t quite acting like the professional and polite dog I was trained to be. But I couldn’t help it! As soon as the door swung open—bam!—a dry and dusty scent hit me. Dust mites! But not like the dust mites we have in Chicago. These must have been Texas dust mites. I could almost smell the cowboys and cow poop on them. I followed the scent right to a pile of stuffed animals. Ahh, my favorite.

  I dug my snout into the pile of bears and bunnies, dogs and lambs. I honed in on a trim alligator. It fit perfectly in my mouth. I brought it to Mary who sat criss-cross applesauce on her bed. Custard sat next to her on a pillow.

  “You found Allie,” Mary said.

  I did. I did find Allie. Now throw her! I’ll find her again!

  Mary could read my mind after all! She tossed Allie across the room. I just knew: this Mary is the best. She’ll have no trouble making friends!

  Mary tossed Allie again. The gator landed right in front of a window. How hadn’t I noticed the window was open? I love an open window! Before snagging Allie off the ground, I lifted my nose for a quick sniff. Aah, a bird had been here. Robin. No…cardinal. And this was a maple tree. Nothing like the smell of sugary-sweet sap in the summertime. Well, except maybe the woodsy smell of squirrels.

  I smelled three different squirrels on the breeze off this tree. I pushed my head further out the window.

  “Careful,” Mary said. “Don’t want you to fall out. I’m not supposed to even have that window open. The screen’s not in yet.”

  I pulled my head back in and scooped Allie off the floor.

  When I brought Allie back to the bed, Mary patted her mattress. She’s so smart. Tasha didn’t even need to teach her this one! I noted where Custard sat and planned my jump onto the bed. I landed perfectly. Right at Mary’s feet. Two pillows away from Custard.

  Mary scratched my head and leaned over to grab a picture from her nightstand.

  “This is my dad,” Mary said. I followed her finger as it tapped the picture. I wished pictures grabbed smells of the people and places in them. A dog can tell a lot more about a person that way.

  “He stayed in Texas,” Mary said. “With his new family. Just my mom and I moved up here. I miss him.”

  Sadness smells like salt. Tastes like it too. This was a salty moment.

  I put my head in Mary’s lap. She ran my ear through her fingers and sniffed. I listened hard as Mary told me about how she was sad about her dad and how scared she was about going to her new school and meeting new friends.

  I wished I could tell Mary that my dad still lives somewhere in Wisconsin. With his other family. I wished I could tell her that I’ve never even met my dad but that I still missed him every day. And that sometimes I dream I’m running alongside him, poking my snout into sheep bottoms while he calls me a good boy and tells me that he’s proud of me for being a world-famous Helper Hound.

  And I wished I could tell Mary that I know it’s scary to move somewhere new—and to feel so alone and to think you’ll never make friends.

  I wanted to tell her: it’s going to be OK (Trick #2). She’ll be the best at making friends. She’ll make a million new ones. I wanted to do this because Be A Good Listener and Be Willing to Share Your Heart is Trick #3. But it’s hard for a dog to say all that in words.

  So instead, I focused too hard on sending my thoughts into her brain, and a long, flutey toot escaped from under my tail. I was embarrassed, even though it felt good to let that go.

  “Ew!” Mary said, and straightened up. Custard leapt off the bed.

  Normally their reaction would have hurt my feelings, but Mary was laughing. And laughing is the best. Make someone laugh and you make a friend. That’s Trick #4.

  Even as Mary leaned back away from me, I felt her body shake. In case you’re wondering, a good belly laugh normally smells like a burp—like whatever you had for lunch. But this time, the belly-laugh smell was overpowered by the peanut butter-banana mu
ffins I had for snack. They smelled a lot better going in than coming out.

  Anyway, tooting in front of new friends is not polite, as Tasha says. However, if it gets people laughing, I think it’s worth it.

  Mary wiped her eyes and then slid out from under me. “Now I have to go to the bathroom,” Mary said.

  I followed her to the door of her room. She pulled it closed behind her and put her hand into something that looked like a “stay” command.

  “Wait here with Custard until I get back,” she said. “Try to get along.”

  I sat and swished my tail across her carpeted floor. The door clicked behind her.

  CHAPTER 8

  If I had been certain that Mary had told me to stay, I’d have stayed. I’d have sat my Good Dog Sit until Mary opened that door. But since I wasn’t sure, I went ahead and jumped up on the bed, only turning around when Custard hissed behind me.

  I brought my snout toward Custard’s tiny black nose. If only she’d give me one little sniff, she’d know I’m a good dog! But Custard swiped at my nose with her sharp claw—ouch! —and then pranced to the windowsill.

  She jumped up and lasered me again, daring or inviting me—depending on how you look at it—to come toward her.

  So I did. I trotted my happy-go-luckiest trot right over to the window. And watched Custard leap right out.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes! Didn’t Custard know it was a long way down?

  She must not have. Because Custard YEEEOOWED as she wrapped her whole body around the thin branch closest to the window. The branch nodded under her weight.

  I barked my best Danger! Danger! bark. But I stopped short when I remembered: I am a Helper Hound. Custard needed help. I could help!

  I stretched my head as far out the window as I could. The tip of her tail was a Milk-Bone’s length away from my snout. If she’d turn around, Custard could jump on my head and use me as a bridge. But she wouldn’t turn around.