stretching toward the dog,
held steady,
his voice wavered
just a bit.
“Here, little dog.”
Charles Larue watched the boy,
watched the dog.
Both boy and dog
were coiled springs,
waiting to be released.
What were they doing here
outside his gate
in the night,
anyway?
Buddy stretched toward the reaching hand.
She touched it,
just lightly
with her cool, damp nose.
A boy hand.
A good boy hand.
She breathed it in.
And Mark,
feeling the coolness,
the dampness
of the nose
and the snuffle of warm breath
against his palm,
fell instantly,
deeply,
helplessly
in love.
This . . .
this . . .
this little dog
was exactly what he’d begged for,
what he’d longed for,
what he’d needed
his entire life!
If only his mother . . .
But no,
there was no point
in expecting his mother
to change.
He’d been asking for a dog
forever,
and the answer
had always been the same.
Besides,
how could he expect his mother—
his practical,
no-nonsense mother—
to believe
that a stray dog
had called his name
in the night?
Mark took a step forward
anyway.
Close enough
to reach down and gather the dog
into his arms . . .
if she would let him.
What he would do with her
after he picked her up,
he had no idea.
But he needed to hold her,
if only for a few seconds.
That step,
though—
that one step—
was too much
for Buddy.
Instead of remembering
all the good boy moments
that had filled her life,
she remembered, “Shoo!”
She remembered, “Go away!”
She remembered flapping dish towels
and cross voices.
The spring that held her tight
sprung.
Without even deciding,
she found herself running
fast,
fast,
fast.
But where she was going,
she had no idea.
Away.
Only that.
Away.
Mark stood
with his hand still out,
facing the great bush of white eyebrows
and the great beak of a nose.
The night was too dark
to make out the eyes
between eyebrows and nose,
but he imagined them fierce.
He imagined them cruel.
And in that sudden imagining
Mark remembered
what he had almost forgotten.
His mother.
If she woke
and found him gone,
she would be wild with worry.
If she woke
and found him gone,
she would be furious!
She wouldn’t be much interested
in hearing why he’d gone out
wandering the streets
of Erthly
in the middle of the night.
She would know,
with great certainty,
that he never should have left
his bed.
Mark took a long look
at the little dog
disappearing down the street,
then at the silent man
standing
before him.
He turned
and ran
toward
home.
Little dog running.
Little dog scurrying,
scampering,
panting.
Nowhere to go.
No one to take her in.
Little black dog with brown paws
and a brown mask
and a sweet ruffle of brown fur on her bum
just beneath the black whip of her tail.
Little dog,
lost,
lost,
lost.
Charles Larue stood
for a long time
in front of his own iron gate,
the one with spikes.
The boy was gone.
The dog was gone.
Why hadn’t he spoken?
His voice had grown rusty
with disuse,
but surely he still knew how
to speak.
What would he have said,
though?
What did he have left to say?
A breeze stirred the oak tree
above his head,
setting the leaves murmuring
to one another.
Sssspeak . . . sssspeak,
they seemed to say.
Charles Larue sighed.
Even an old oak tree
had more to say
to the world
than he did.
He turned and plodded back
toward
the huge,
empty
house.
This is,
perhaps,
the moment to pause
to consider
longing.
Mark’s longing for a dog.
Buddy’s longing for a boy.
Charles Larue’s longing for something . . .
boy or dog or his lost lady,
anything to give his life shape again.
Mark went back to his bed,
carefully stepping around
the small, cluttered table
just inside the door,
still longing.
Buddy ran through town,
searching for a place
to hide,
still longing.
Charles Larue listened to the echo
of the large double doors
closing behind him,
then stood
in the foyer
longing for . . .
he didn’t know what.
But there was no question;
he was longing too.
And let us not forget the first boy,
now living in the city,
the one who’d
given
Buddy
up.
He woke that same night
and gazed at the many-colored lights
that streamed through his window.
All night long in the city,
light streamed.
Not many dogs in the city,
but lots of light.
The boy liked the lights.
Sometimes he climbed out of bed
and sat
at his bedroom window,
to watch the colors
dance up and down
the always-busy street.
He’d found a friend yesterday.
His first one in the city.
His friend didn’t have a dog
either,
but he’d liked hearing
about Buddy.
The boy had told his new friend
everything:
about her fantastic ears,
about how high she could leap
to catch a ball,
about the stuffed
cat
she rested her chin on when she slept.
He hadn’t mentioned
the kisses,
though.
Somehow
he hadn’t wanted
to talk
about the kisses.
Still . . .
he’d told his new friend about his dog,
and he hadn’t cried.
It was the first time
he’d managed to talk about Buddy
without crying.
That didn’t change the promise
he had made to himself,
though,
the promise he’d made every single day
since the move.
When he was grown,
he would have a dog again,
and, big or small,
rough-coated or smooth,
male or female,
his dog would be named Buddy.
And the boy,
who would then be a man,
would never
give Buddy
away.
Ever.
So much longing.
So many lives
filled
with longing.
It’s what stories—
all our stories—
are made of.
And what is longing
made of
except hope?
Sunlight danced across the kitchen table.
It glinted in Mark’s orange juice
and skittered across his bowl of cereal.
“What are you going to do today?”
his mother asked.
Mark knew
exactly
what he was going to do.
He was going to search for the little dog
he had found
last night.
But he didn’t say that.
“Just ride my bike,
I guess,” he said.
It was the truth,
after all.
That was exactly what he was going to do,
ride his bike
all over town,
searching.
“I’ll probably see some of my friends,”
he added,
“and their dogs.”
The word “dogs”
came out as hard as a stone,
but his mother
didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m working until five,”
she said.
Mark nodded.
He didn’t need to be told that.
His mother worked at the post office,
and she usually stayed until five.
(In a small town like Erthly,
being mayor
wasn’t a job.
It was more like being
an elected volunteer.)
“I have a council meeting
at seven tonight,”
she said.
Mark knew that, too.
He was going to be there.
“So supper will be early.”
Mark nodded again.
Mark’s mother gave his bristly hair
a gentle tug,
as though he might not be
paying attention,
though he had heard
every word.
“Check in
with Mrs. Morgan
before you go anywhere,”
she said.
“Let her know where you’ll be.”
Mark didn’t need to be told that,
either.
He always checked in
with Mrs. Morgan.
She lived next door,
and she’d looked after him
while his mother worked
since he was a baby.
Besides,
Mrs. Morgan always kept
a plate of freshly baked cookies
on her kitchen table.
Her snickerdoodles
were famous.
“And Mark?”
his mother said.
He looked up,
saw the crease
between her eyebrows,
and looked away.
“I heard a dog howling last night,”
she said.
“It was carrying on something awful.
Must be a stray.
I’ll let the sheriff know.
He’ll take care of it.
In the meantime
I want you to be careful.
Don’t go near
any stray dogs.
You never know.”
Mark tried on a smile,
though it didn’t fit very well.
You never know,
he thought,
when a stray dog
might be calling your name.
Then he gave his mom a hug,
stopped by to check in
with Mrs. Morgan
(and collect a snickerdoodle),
and rode off
on his bike.
He had a mission now
for certain.
He had to save
a lost dog
from the sheriff.
“Here, dog!” he called,
again and again.
“Here, little dog.”
But no little dog
with airplane ears
appeared.
Buddy stood in the alley
behind the house.
There it was.
At last.
She’d found it.
But even though she knew
this was the house
she’d come from,
she didn’t move.
Her bed was there.
Her ball,
her bowl,
her kibble,
all were there.
Buddy’s stomach rumbled
when she thought
about her kibble.
Her cat was there too,
her orange-marmalade stuffed cat.
But the woman was in that house too.
The one who yelled,
“Shut up, Buddy.”
The one who said,
“No!”
The one who patted her head
with a stiff,
flat hand
and said, “Good dog,”
but didn’t seem to mean it.
Buddy checked the fence.
The hole she had dug
had been filled in.
She tested the dirt.
Soft,
loose.
She could dig it again.
She could dig it
and crawl back inside
as easily as she had crawled out.
But she didn’t.
Instead
she turned,
head hanging,
ears hanging,
tail hanging,
and walked
away.
She had a boy.
She knew she had a boy.
Somewhere.
Mark rode his bike along Walnut Street.
He was getting good
at hitting all the potholes.
He turned up First Avenue,
along Maple Street,
across Second Avenue,
down Birch Street.
“Here, dog,” he called
the length of every street.
“Here, little dog.
Come to me!
Please!”
If he had known to peek
beneath the porch
of the brick house
on the corner of Walnut and Fifth,
he would have found Buddy,
lying in the cool dark.
But he didn’t know.
“Here, dog.
Come, little dog.”
Buddy heard.
She lifted her head.
She thumped
her whiplike tail.
She strained
her airplane ears
to captur
e the boy voice,
the good boy voice.
“Come to me.
Please?”
But it wasn’t her boy voice.
She lowered her head.
Her airplane ears
drooped.
Her tail went still.
In the hidden dark beneath the porch
Buddy closed her eyes
and slept
again.
Mark rode on,
calling.
“Here, dog!
Come, little dog.
Come to me.
Please?”
No little dog came.
The summer evening
lay across Erthly
like a wool blanket,
heavy and smothering,
without a breath of breeze.
Thunder stammered in the distance.
Storm coming.
Storm coming,
it warned.
But the Dog-Park Pack
had more important things
to think about
than a little rain.
They had gathered
once more
beneath the enormous oak tree
next to the iron fence
with spikes,
ready to do battle
with the town council.
Cinder,
the schnoodle,
danced around Ryan’s feet,
tangling his legs.
Blizzard,
the white shepherd,
sat next to Alex,
as stately as a statue.
Hotdog,
the dachshund,
found something wonderfully smelly
in the grass
and rolled in it.
Fido,
the orange-marmalade cat,
touched noses
with each of his dog friends,
then sat down primly
at the end of his leash
and washed his right paw.
When he was done
he used the slick of spit
on his paw
to clean his magnificent whiskers.
He cleaned them
with the kind of care
that made it clear
he knew
exactly
how magnificent
they were.
Lia arrived with Polly and Daisy,
her aunt’s goldens.
Daisy pranced over to check out Hotdog.
Then,
pleased with Hotdog’s new smell,
she rolled in the grass too.
(The wonderful scent
in the grass
had been left,
quite recently,
by a passing rabbit.)
Samantha handed out signs on sticks.
The signs said
A KID’S BEST FRIEND
and
EQUAL PLAY FOR CANINES
and
DOGS ARE CITIZENS TOO.
“You don’t say anything about dog parks,”
Mark said.
“I don’t need to,”
Samantha replied.
“You’re going to talk about dog parks.”
Mark nodded.
Of course.
He was going to talk about dog parks.
In front of the town council.
In front of his mother.
He had said he would,
so he would,
though he still wasn’t sure
Little Dog, Lost Page 5