Because of Shoe and Other Dog Stories

by Margarita Engle

  They both laughed.

  Chico was slipping the photo back into his pocket when he heard a guy voice at the door. “Hey, Meagan.”

  It was Gabe. “We’re going to the library,” he said.

  “The library?” Meagan said. “You guys?”

  Gabe shrugged. “Baker won’t give us an extension on that Civil War essay.”

  Gabe looked at Chico and then looked back at Meagan. “Anyways, Dave wanted me to tell you.”

  “Cool, meet you guys there in a few.”

  Gabe was already leaving when Meagan called out, “Gabe, wait!”

  He popped his head back into the classroom.

  “This is Chico,” she said. “Chico, this is Gabe.”

  They both mumbled, “Hey.”

  Chico closed his textbook, and Gabe looked at Meagan and said, “We’ll be in there.”

  And that was the end of it. Gabe left.

  “See?” Meagan said. “They’re not such bad guys.”

  Chico shrugged.

  “Anyway, sorry I laughed at your dog. It’s just his teeth. They, like, really stick out.”

  “I know.”

  “Like, far, though. I wonder if my mom would ever work on a dog. She’s an orthodontist.”

  Meagan patted Chico’s shoulder, got up, and grabbed her book bag. She gave Chico a little wave and walked out of the classroom.

  The Wolf

  A couple mornings later, there was a big rumor spreading around campus. A wolf was loose on the school grounds. Several groups of kids had spotted it on the field before first bell rang.

  School security was out in full force, riding around the field on their carts, checking inside storage rooms, behind the handball walls, up the hill. Principal Van Buren was walking through the halls gripping an electric megaphone.

  Chico’s first-period teacher, Mrs. Blizzard, explained how the private school had been built right up against the woods, where wolves still bred. Now that developers were pushing in on both sides, the wolves’ natural habitat was getting squeezed.

  “Doesn’t surprise me at all,” she said, closing her roll book and leaning against her desk. “Of course they were going to end up on campus eventually. They’re looking for food.”

  A girl across the room from Chico, Sarah Knowles, raised her hand and asked, “Would a wolf hurt people?”

  “Best to err on the side of caution,” Mrs. Blizzard said, looking out the window. “That’s why they’re keeping us inside until Animal Control arrives.”

  More hands went up, but before anybody was called on, the phone rang.

  Mrs. Blizzard picked it up, and everybody around Chico turned to one another and started talking about the wolf and whether or not they’d cancel school.

  Chico was barely listening, though. He kept going back and forth on the thought stuck in his head. A wolf? Really? Or what if it was just a dog that looked like a wolf? Of course, Fallbrook was over fifty miles away. And there was the whole arthritis thing. But still. Imagine if it was Peanut!

  The teacher hung up, shouted, “Class, please! Quiet down!”

  The hum of conversation faded, and they all turned their attention back to the front of the room.

  “That was Secretary Mulligan. Animal Control has arrived. Everything should be fine in a couple of hours. Now, please take out your readers and turn to page forty-seven.”

  The class groaned and started pulling out their books.

  A few minutes into Mrs. Blizzard’s lecture, Chico raised his hand and asked if he could use the bathroom.

  “I don’t know, Chico. They’d really like us to remain in the classrooms.”

  “It’s an emergency, though,” Chico said. “I’ll hurry.”

  The teacher looked at her watch, then out the window. “The bathroom and back,” she said. “Got it? No dillydallying.”

  Chico hustled out the door.

  Instead of ducking into the bathroom two doors down from his class, he sped past it toward the field. He spotted a few men in safari-looking uniforms wandering around with walkie-talkies and a large net. The school security guards were right alongside them. Principal Van Buren was pointing up at the woods.

  When everybody started toward the other end of campus, Chico snuck down onto the field and began a search of his own. He circled the new baseball diamond, ducked in and out of both dugouts. He walked the outside of the track. He marched up a bank covered in ice-plant flowers, peeked behind the rows of portable classrooms.

  But there was no sign of any wild animal.

  Chico was about to head back to class when he decided to check one last spot. Along the concrete wall just off campus, where he waited alone every morning for school to start.

  Halfway up the stairs, he heard breathing.

  Chico froze.

  What if he was wrong? What if it really was an actual wolf? And it was looking for food?

  He stood perfectly still for several long seconds, trying to decide what to do. His heart pounded inside his chest. On the other side of the field, he could make out the people from Animal Control and the security guards. They were leaning a tall ladder against the gym, which separated the east side of campus from the woods.

  As Chico turned back around, he saw the shadow of a large animal head slowly peeking out from behind the wall.

  His body went cold.

  But then he smelled the horrible gas.

  And he saw the crooked teeth.

  Chico raced up the rest of the stairs as Peanut started patting his feet and moving his bald head around in excitement.

  Chico slid to his knees and hugged Peanut, and Peanut licked his face and jumped up so his paws were on Chico’s thighs.

  Peanut smelled even worse than usual, but Chico didn’t care. He rubbed his face all over Peanut’s face. Hot dog breath in his ear. Sandpaper tongue. It was a miracle he had his best friend back.

  He pulled away and looked at Peanut, said, “How’d you even get here, boy? I thought you had arthritis.”

  Peanut panted.

  Chico’s eyes burned.

  He imagined the old dog limping along the sides of roads for over fifty miles, somehow finding his way here, to Chico’s private school on the hill.

  He leaned into his dog’s ear and hummed a portion of the national anthem. Peanut howled into the cloudless sky.

  As Chico hugged his dog again, even tighter this time, he felt a couple tears sneak down his cheeks. He wanted to believe they were purely tears of joy, but he knew better. The toxic smell was also a factor.

  Ditching School

  Chico stood up, knowing he had a decision to make.

  If he went to Animal Control, they might ship Peanut back to Fallbrook. He could leave school right now and walk Peanut home, but technically that would be ditching. His old man would flip when he got the call, maybe even ship him off to Tijuana. But could Chico really trust a hole-digging dog to stay hidden behind a wall until the end of school? There was no way he could let Animal Control snatch Peanut up.

  Chico guided his dog back behind the wall and said, “Stay, boy.”

  They stared at each other.

  “You hear me?”

  Peanut panted, faded tongue bobbing over his buck teeth.

  “I’m serious,” Chico said. “Just for a minute. Don’t come out.”

  Then he took off down the stairs, across the field, and up to the office, where he asked permission to go home. He was really sick, he explained to Secretary Mulligan. Maybe some kind of stomach flu. He was probably contagious.

  But the secretary said they couldn’t release sick students without a ride home. Especially with the wolf scare. “You’re welcome to lie down in the nurse’s office, though,” she said. “And I can call home, see if your mother or father can come get you.”

  Chico considered this.

  His dad wasn’t near a phone. So that was out. And if he left without a ride, he might end up at Auntie Mariposa’s in Mexico. But how could he just leave his dog sitting
behind a wall all day? Even if he stayed put, Animal Control would eventually head in that direction. They’d catch him in their special net and take him away. Maybe to the pound. And what would the people at the pound do with a dog as old as Peanut? Put him to sleep?

  “Honey?” the secretary said.

  Chico looked at her, said, “I’ll just wait in class, ma’am. I think my stomach’s feeling better.”

  * * *

  Meagan stopped Chico on his way back through the hall.

  “Hey,” she said, hanging halfway out of her classroom door.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Where you going? We’re all supposed to be in our classrooms, you know.”

  Chico shrugged.

  She tilted her head a little. “What’s wrong?”

  He whispered in her ear. “It’s my dog. He came back.”

  “Peanut?” Meagan shouted. “Where? When?”

  Chico put his finger to his lips for her to lower her voice. “Here,” he whispered. “By the big concrete wall right off campus. Peanut’s the wolf.”

  Gabe stepped out from behind Meagan, said, “What’s going on?”

  “Chico’s dog,” Meagan said in a quieter voice. “The one I told you guys about. He came all the way here from Fallbrook.”

  Gabe looked up at Chico. “He walked? That’s, like, fifty miles.”

  “Exactly,” Meagan said.

  Gabe reached into the classroom and pulled another body toward the door. It was David Winters. “This guy’s dog,” Gabe explained, “traveled fifty miles to find him.”

  “Are you serious?” David said.

  Chico nodded.

  “You’re taking him home, right?” Meagan said. “No way your dad could refuse a dog that walked fifty miles to find its owner.”

  Gabe opened his mouth like he was gonna say something, but right then the bell rang. The teacher inside the classroom shouted, “Only go from room to room, people! Field’s off-limits!”

  Meagan, Gabe, and David stepped out of the classroom. A few other people moved past them, headed toward other rooms.

  “They told me I can’t leave,” Chico said.

  “What do you mean you can’t leave?” Meagan said.

  “Secretary Mulligan. She told me I have to have a ride. Otherwise it’s ditching.”

  David looked at Gabe and then looked back at Chico. “Let’s go get your dog,” he said.

  Everybody turned to David.

  “He came all this way,” he said. “It’s, like, special circumstances or something.”

  “Dave’s right,” Gabe said.

  Meagan had a big smile on her face. She peeked into the class at her teacher, then turned to Chico and said, “Let’s go.”

  The three of them were now looking to him. Wanting to help. Chico could not believe it.

  He started toward the field, and they followed.

  At the top of the stairs they all stood staring at Peanut.

  “Wow,” Gabe said. “I’ve never seen a dog with a receding hairline.”

  Meagan laughed and said, “I told you guys.”

  Peanut went on his hind legs out of excitement, but as he did this, a very loud sound came from his backside.

  David crinkled up his nose and turned to Chico. “Dude, did your dog just rip one?”

  “He does that sometimes,” Chico said.

  Everybody shielded their noses with their hands. “Oh my God,” Gabe said. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever smelled.”

  When the laughing died down, David patted Chico on the shoulder and said, “Lead the way, man. If you’re getting in trouble for ditching, we’re all getting in trouble.”

  “We’re in this together,” Meagan said.

  “You sure?” Chico said. “It’s on the other side of the freeway. Behind Home Depot.”

  “Near the flower fields?” Meagan said.

  Chico nodded.

  “We don’t care,” David said.

  Chico tried to hide his smile as he took Peanut by the collar and they started walking.

  “Does your dad work the flower fields?” Gabe said.

  Chico nodded. “You know those poinsettias at school? Near the library?”

  They said they did.

  “My dad raised ’em up from tiny little seeds. Like a pea in the palm of your hand.”

  Everybody seemed impressed.

  As they passed underneath the freeway, into Chico’s side of town, he imagined how they must’ve looked moving down the middle of the rundown street. Chico leading his crazy-looking mutt by the collar. An arthritic wolf-dog that had somehow tracked him down from fifty miles away. Three white kids from the school on the hill. Escorting him. Kids he’d fought with on the field less than three weeks ago.

  He knew when his dad got home he’d have some explaining to do. He’d have to make a case for keeping Peanut. And he’d have to face whatever punishment his dad laid down for ditching school.

  But they were gonna be okay, Chico decided.

  All three of them.

  Peanut and his dad and Chico.

  Something about making new friends made him believe this.

  Brancusi & Me

  Written and illustrated by Jon J Muth

  Polaire

  An Outing

  Did you hear that!? It’s not a chop. It’s a crack! That is splintering of wood! And now comes the bad language.… “* # $ @ & !” Brancusi’s voice. Yes! That means we will be going out! That’s the third adze handle he’s broken this morning. A walk! A walk! He has no more oak! We have to go to Old Man Berg’s for ax handles!

  Again, the voice, “Polaire! Get your shoes and coat!”

  “Ha ha! Yes, you are so funny!” I bark. Brancusi says these things to amuse himself. He knows, of course, I am a dog and don’t wear shoes. “Woof! I am ready! Ready ready ready! I am by the door! Let’s go!” I say. This is wonderful! So many rare smells! We will pass through the park at exactly the right time. The second baguettes of the day will be baked, and children will be there!

  * * *

  We return home from our outing. That was magnificent! I shall be full for at least five minutes.

  * * *

  I love to hear him muttering under his breath. “The essence … not feathers, not a bird, but the essence.… What is the essence of a bird…? Not to transcend the animal, but to reveal it more fully!”

  I am lying on the concrete floor. He is standing with a stone file, creating a white fog of dust as he smoothes the marble.

  “Master,” I bark, “no one knows what you are talking about! What does this mean?! The ‘essence’?”

  “Flight!” he bellows. “Of course! It’s flight!”

  I can’t help it, my tail is wagging/dusting the floor.

  “Not the bird … but … flight itself !”

  He looks down at me, pulls thoughtfully at his beard, then turns back to his work with the file.

  I lick the bottom of his stool leg and watch as fine white particles catch the sunlight. Sometimes, when he is working feverishly, it gets so heavy, I can see sworls in the light. When they sometimes turn into angels, I am up and barking. You must be vigilant with artists. You never know what their work will bring forth.

  * * *

  Woof! The dust has me sneezing again. I put my paws over my nose to try and stop it.

  He laughs at this. He has a sweet laugh.

  “Polaire! You are sneezing at my hard work.” He crinkles up his eyes, and they sparkle from beneath his brows like a secret hidden in a dark forest. That’s when I smell it: love. Even through the marble dust I can smell it. I can always smell it. And that makes my heart leap and fills every corner of the world.

  * * *

  If I’m lucky, that’s when he comes in close and snuzzles me—his Romanian word—and no matter how much he washes, I can still smell the wood smoke in his beard. Smells like home. And the marble dust. Always the marble dust. My nose may not be able to smell as well as when I was a puppy, because
of the dust, but my ears are very good, and so are my eyes. I can see many things in the stone and many things in the wood. I try not to bark because it breaks his concentration. Then he puts me outside. The door is always open, but I know he would rather I stay outside if I am going to bark.

  Sigh. There is much less to talk about outside. Rue de Ronsin has so little traffic. Crazy automobile drivers sometimes. Maybe one of Giacometti’s cats will saunter by on a good day, and that can be a nice chase. Of course, I let Brancusi know when visitors are coming. Especially Duchamp. He always brings small sausages for me. Duchamp should come more often.

  * * *

  We enjoy Erik Satie’s company very much these days. The music he and Brancusi play together is such fun: Satie playing that crazy old piano from the Russian painter in the next alley and Brancusi on a flute he carved himself.

  Satie will come by the studio and play bits for Brancusi, sometimes working at the stunted piano all afternoon. Satie has been writing this sonata for a while, which he describes as a prayer. It has tender, sad passages and crashing desperate themes freely mingled, one after the other so splendidly, so powerfully, so naturally that it is no longer the sounds of music that fill the studio rooms, but the flow of Satie’s memory, heard now for the first time. Satie’s whole being seems to pour into this piece of music.

  * * *

  “Constantin”—this is Brancusi’s given name, and Satie insists on using it—“I finally have a well-paying commission. It is for an opera. It is to be in the key of A and will revolve around the theme of a fairy tale. Anyone could write it. I am barely involved,” says Satie. “The whole thing is outlined. Just a lot of labor, signifying nothing. But it is a big affair.” The older pianist polishes his pince-nez glasses and plops them back on his nose. “Costumes, sets, so much time fiddling with this or that part because the soloist can’t reach a note. Anyone could write it,” he says, without a trace of pleasure in his voice. “And so I will spend the next year or more trying to help get this cement albatross off the ground.”

  Brancusi looks at his friend for a moment. He has been working on his magic bird—his Maiastra. “I have to remove a shadow from the neck of the Maiastra,” he says. “It is important that a certain line stand out in relief.” His eyes are watery. “A billion possible lines pass through a point, and I must choose from a billion lines … one … single line. No one knows where that line is but me. If I don’t find it, it will never be found.”