How I Got a Life and a Dog

by Art Corriveau

  “You’re going to have to pull while I push,” I say to Mom.

  She nods and takes my place at his forepaws. I circle around to his hindquarters. But before I grab him by his good hip—the one he’s lying on—I lean over and whisper into his ear, so that only he can hear me: “This is going to hurt. Probably a lot. But I can’t think of any other way. Please don’t die on me, OK? I really need you to pull through this. I’ll make it up to you somehow, I promise.”

  I tell Mom on the count of three. At three, we give it everything we’ve got. Reggie lets rip with this scary sort of scream, but we get him halfway onto the coat. Another big push gets him there. We drag him by the coat sleeves over to the car. I ask Mom to open both rear doors. Climb in, I say, and get ready to pull him up by the coat sleeves. I’ll hoist his behind up with the bottom hem.

  There’s no way. He’s too heavy and we’re too pooped.

  “Maybe I can find someone to help us,” Mom says.

  I look around. The street is completely deserted. She knows as well as I do that they roll up the sidewalks around here.

  “I could call your father, maybe,” she says. “He lives nearby.”

  I shake my head. “Go get Marky’s dad,” I say. “He’ll know exactly what to do. Plus he’s right next door.”

  She nods and heads for Marky’s house.

  I hunker down next to Reggie on the grass. Together we wait it out.

  read every back issue of Highlights in the waiting room of the animal hospital where we took Reggie for his stomach pump. Mom stares at the same page of her fashion magazine. Finally the vet comes out of the back and takes the seat next to us.

  “I’ve sedated Reggie and put him on a saline drip. He’s in a great deal of pain due to a dangerously inflamed hip joint. He’s also very dehydrated.”

  “Will he be OK?” Mom says. We’ve agreed she should do all the talking.

  The vet shakes his head. “Reggie’s X-rays confirm he suffers from canine hip dysplasia,” he says. “Which basically means his hip bone doesn’t fit snugly in its socket. Unfortunately, it’s a common genetic disorder among German shepherds. The cartilage lining his right hip socket is badly deteriorated. It probably hasn’t helped matters that he’s still ten pounds overweight. But the severity of his present condition must have been caused by some sort of physical trauma or accident.”

  “He had a fall last night,” Mom says.

  “Why on earth didn’t you bring him in?” the vet says, his voice rising in anger. “Reggie should never have been walking on that leg. How could you ignore the fact that he was in such obvious pain?”

  Mom puts her head in her hands.

  I scramble to my feet. The Highlights in my lap falls to the floor with a giant thwack. “Don’t you dare yell at her!” I say. “It’s not her fault. It’s mine. All of it. She had no clue what was going on. Blame me, not her.”

  “OK then,” the vet says, turning to me. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Reggie’s options are now very limited. The most obvious being to put him down.”

  I sit. I pick up the magazine and set it with the rest of them on the table. I neaten the stack. How do I explain? How do I say that I will never be able to forgive myself for this? I turn to Mom for help.

  “What are the other options?” Mom says.

  “A total hip replacement,” the vet says. “Without it, he’ll never walk again.”

  “So we’ll do the hip replacement,” Mom says.

  “It’s a very expensive procedure,” the vet says. “I can’t even do it here. We’ll have to transfer Reggie over to the university animal hospital.”

  “How expensive?”

  The vet tells her. We both gasp like we’re in a bad TV soap opera.

  But then Mom pulls herself together. She sits up straight. She says, “Do it.”

  The vet stands. He says he’ll get the paperwork started. They won’t be able to move Reggie for a day or so, he says, not until the swelling goes down. And after the operation, Reggie will need two months of physical therapy. That won’t be cheap either. Mom nods. He heads back to the examining room.

  Neither of us moves.

  “I guess we should go home now,” Mom says.

  I reach over. I take her hand in mine. I squeeze it really tight.

  She squeezes it back.

  We both sit there, not moving, crying like idiots, not making a sound.

  r. Gilmore asks me to stay behind a minute. Everyone packs up and leaves. Tim punches my arm as he’s passing by. Johnny Hedges and Chris McDuff punch me in the same spot. McDuff whispers, “We’ll be waiting for you right outside.” I rub my arm and wait in my seat for Gilmore to get to the point.

  “Come on over,” he says.

  I go up to his desk. He hands me back my independent study. My mouth goes all dry. I started writing the paper as soon as I got back to school. It took almost the whole week. It turned out to be a lot longer than I expected. I just couldn’t say all I needed to say in ten pages. I hope he didn’t mark me off for that.

  “Wanted to get this back to you before this afternoon,” he says. “How does it feel to be back in English class?”

  “OK,” I say.

  I don’t go to the library for English period anymore. They’re starting a new unit on a book I haven’t read before, one about a bunch of kids marooned on a desert island. Gilmore asked me if I wanted to read it or do another paper. I said I’d like to read it. We’re all complaining about it—it’s sort of hard—but I secretly like it.

  “Anything else?” I say.

  “Aren’t you going to see how you did on your paper?” he says.

  I look on the last page, where he always puts the grade. There’s a big A+ in green pen. It says: Nice going, Nicky. Excellent work. I’m really proud of you.

  “Thanks,” I say. And I mean it.

  “You earned it,” he says.

  im and Hedges and McDuff are waiting for me right outside. But they’re not going to beat me up. We’re just going to play some kickball. As soon as Tim got back to school last Monday, he told them all about how I ran away and stuff. They’ve been calling me Nicky instead of Brownie ever since. And now they’ve totally decided I’m OK to hang out with.

  We choose up sides and begin to play. Townie team is up. I kick first, since I’m the new man and not very good at cleanup. I get a single, which is better than popping out. While I’m waiting for McDuff to kick, I notice Rita over on the swings, eating her sandwich and staring at us.

  “Time out!” I cry.

  I jog over to her, even though everyone’s yelling at me to get back on base.

  “You never call anymore,” Rita says.

  “Where have you been?” I say. “I haven’t seen you all week.”

  “Looking after Julio. The niño had his operation. Mom’s at the hospital a lot with him, when she’s not working her shifts.”

  “He doing OK?” I say.

  She nods. “How about you?” she says.

  “OK, I guess.”

  “How’s Reggie?” she says.

  “OK.”

  “I see you’ve made some new friends,” she says.

  “You want to play?” I say.

  “No girls allowed,” she says. “Townie rules.”

  “Screw that,” I say. I put out my hand. She takes it, and I pull her up out of the swing. Together we stride over to Tim, who’s on deck to kick after McDuff.

  “Rita’s on our team,” I tell him, “since we’re still a man short.”

  “No way,” he says.

  “OK then,” I say. “I quit.”

  “You can’t quit, you’re on base,” he says.

  “Watch me,” I say. I turn to Rita then. “Is that Frisbee still in your locker? We’ll just play some Ultimate instead.”

  Rita grins. “I’d rather play kickball,” she says. She runs over, grabs the ball from the pitcher’s hands, and starts dribbling it on her knees and ankles like a soccer pro.

  “Sh
e can totally be on our team,” the pitcher calls over.

  “No way, Ladybug’s on our team,” Tim says. “We’re a man short.”

  Rita hands the ball back to the pitcher and jogs over.

  I head back to first base.

  finish telling Dr. Holkke all about my A+ and how I stuck up for Rita at recess. I tell him I’ve got a weekend with Dad coming up that he promises not to cancel no matter what. Dr. Holkke says it looks like I’m finally settling in to my new life. “Yeah,” I say, “but it sure took a while.” He looks at his watch and says we’re done. I remind him that we still have plenty more time. Mom couldn’t make her half of today’s appointment because the Ambulance Chasers had a big case to file and needed her to type up a bunch of stuff. He says no, he hasn’t forgotten. What he meant was: We’re actually finished with therapy. As far as he’s concerned, I don’t have to come back next Wednesday—unless I want to.

  “No problem,” I say. Cool.

  He asks me if I have anything else I’d like to tell him before we say good-bye.

  I consider for a split second telling him that if you say his name backward it sounds like the most famous wrestler of all time. But I don’t. I just say thank you.

  He shakes my hand. He says he’ll get his receptionist to call me a cab to take me back to Charlestown, like he arranged with Mom over the phone.

  And that’s it. I’m free.

  ell, not totally free. I’m grounded. Like forever. I’m so grounded Mom won’t even let me walk to school by myself in the morning. She insists on driving me there so that she knows for certain I make it to homeroom on time. She can’t pick me up after school because she doesn’t get out of the Ambulance Chasers till five o’clock. But she calls a half hour after the final bell at my school, wherever I am. Tuesdays and Thursdays, that’s back at the apartment. But Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, that’s at Strazzulo’s, where she also picks me up at five thirty on the dot. She says she needs to learn how to trust me again.

  Mrs. Strazzulo’s making me work off all that meat I put on Old Alf’s account. I sweep up at closing time three afternoons a week and do deliveries for her on Saturday mornings. In fact, I’m on my way over there now—zipping down Warren in a cab.

  At the corner of Monument Ave, though, I tell the driver to pull over. I ask him how much I owe him. I pay him and get out. Mrs. S. knows I’ll be a little late to the shop today, on account of therapy. I check my watch and head up Monument.

  Sure enough, they’re all at the square playing bocce on the grass: Sal and Floyd and Mickey—and Old Alf.

  I take a deep breath. I march over and collect up a bunch of balls. I bring them to the old guys.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Sal says.

  “I never expected to see your face around here again,” Floyd says.

  “Who is it?” Old Alf says. “Who’s there?”

  “Your grandson from California,” Sal says.

  They all laugh.

  “Quick, give him a treat,” Mickey says.

  “That dog isn’t with you, is he?” Old Alf says.

  “That’s the thing,” I say. And I launch into my sad tale.

  ’m just cranking up the awning when I hear a sh sound behind me. It’s Mom in her jogging outfit. Getting more exercise is one of her Columbus Day Resolutions. She decided, once I got back from running away, that we couldn’t wait till New Year’s to make them. So we moved the whole thing up to October. These were Mom’s resolutions: that she needed to exercise more, that she needed to eat better, that she needed to spend more quality time with me—oh great—but best of all, that she needed to check in with the vino situation.

  I tell Mom I’ll be right out, as soon as I hang up my apron. I ask Mrs. S. if there’s anything else before I sign off for the day. She hands me the usual oily package of bones and tells me to get out of there—she’s got rabbits to skin—she’ll see me on Friday.

  I remind Mom we need to stop by the health food store. They have this organic dog food in bulk that the vet recommended—veal and sweet potato. She says fine, we’re almost out of granola too. Plus she’s been craving a chai latte from the café next door. Now that she knows about Hanover Street, we hardly ever go to the Supa-Sava. Or Taco Mucho either, unfortunately. Oh well. You can’t have everything.

  In the health food store, Mom heads straight for bulk foods. I go over to produce to see if they have any decent apples left. She’s teaching me how to cook. I can make cobbler now. Don’t worry, it’s wicked easy.

  Jenny is over by the oranges.

  I’ve been dreading the day she would walk into Strazzulo’s to buy a rump roast or some sirloin tips and find me there. Then again, I dreaded facing Alf Santorello and the old guys up at the monument—until today—when I finally just did it. I still don’t know much about what happened between Old Alf and Reggie. Alf Santorello doesn’t blab his family business to strangers. But it didn’t go so bad, all in all. Maybe this won’t either.

  I tap Jenny on the shoulder.

  “Nicky!” she says. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “I’ve been busy doing a report for school,” I say. Which is true, technically speaking.

  “I was worried that you had already gone home to California. I was kind of sad you didn’t come and say good-bye.”

  “I’m still here,” I say. “I live here now. With my mom. Like, permanently.”

  “Really? That’s great! How’s your granddad doing?” she says.

  Uh-oh. Here we go.

  “Mr. Santorello isn’t my granddad,” I say.

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought you told me—”

  “I lied,” I say. “I made that up. We got Reggie at the pound. I don’t even know Alf Santorello—not really. I don’t know why he gave Reggie up. I don’t know why he sold his house. All I know is he moved into that home for vets in Charlestown so he could play bocce with his old army buddies up at the monument every afternoon.”

  My one and only Columbus Day Resolution: When you lie, you always get caught. I’ve made a promise to myself to quit—cold turkey—just like Mom with her vino. It’s not as easy as it sounds. I was getting pretty good at it. I may have to keep a new mental log—on myself.

  “Oh,” Jenny says.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It started out as a misunderstanding. Then things got kind of out of hand. It’s a long story.”

  “Oh,” Jenny says again. “I’m glad you told me.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  And I am. I really like Jenny.

  “Well, the good news, I guess, is that I’ll still be seeing you around the neighborhood,” she says.

  “Jenny?”

  “What, sugar?”

  “The part about my mom being a really good gardener was true,” I say. “She really did have roses and stuff back at our old house.”

  “Oh good,” she says. “I was hoping to swap pruning tips with her.”

  “Hey, would you like to meet her now? She’s right over there somewhere.”

  “Sure,” Jenny says. “I’d love to.”

  I take her over to bulk foods. I introduce her to Mom. Jenny tells Mom she’s a friend of mine from the neighborhood. I’ll be her gardening assistant, she says, as soon as it’s spring—it’s all arranged. She winks at me.

  She and Mom start to chat.

  I decide to step outside to see if the little old ladies are out playing dominoes at the café next door.

  eggie thumps his tail when he sees me. He’s lying on a pile of comforters by the front door. He’s still in a massive cast from his operation, so it’s really hard for him to get around. But he’s recovering nicely. In fact they say he’s the top dog in his physical therapy class. I hunker down next to him to give him a good scratch behind the ears, while Mom heads to the kitchen to start dinner. Thai beef salad tonight. I can take it or leave it, personally. But it’s one of Mom’s favorites.

  I wish I could say Reggie was going to be as good as new. But that would be a lie. Even
though he’s got a new mechanical hip, he’ll always walk with a limp. At least it won’t cause him any pain. Anyway, his days of making moonlight flights through the air are over.

  I whisper into his ear: “I really miss you at my side. The old rounds aren’t the same without you. But one of these days, an afternoon walk will be good for your new mechanical hip—as long as we take it slow. And one of these days, Mom will trust me enough to unground me. Then you and I will go for some serious walks, boy. Just you and me. We’ve done the Freedom Trail now, but there’s still plenty of Boston to explore. There’s no telling what new adventure we’ll have or where we’ll end up. Just you wait and see.”

  Reggie leans over and sticks his tongue in my ear.

  he three words beginning with S and a vowel that make the sh sound are . . .

  Sure.

  Sugar.

  Sumac.

  AS YOU’VE PROBABLY GUESSED, NICKY HAS DEFINITELY given you his own spin on Boston’s history, monuments, sights, and attractions. (Personally, my duck boat drivers have always been terrific. . . .) Nicky would also want me to point out—in the interest of telling the total truth—that puppy-raising and guide-dog training procedures can vary quite a bit from organization to organization, and that every blind person’s experience of the world is, of course, as unique as your own. If you’re interested in doing your own independent study on this topic, Web sites for the National Federation of the Blind (www.nfb.org) and Guide Dogs of America (www.guidedogsofamerica.org) are two good places to start.

  Finally, Nicky and I would like to extend our thanks to those who helped turn this idea for a novel into an actual book you can pick up and read: The Corporation of Yaddo, Djerassi Resident Artists Program, Al Zuckerman at Writers House, and Howard Reeves at Amulet Books.