by Lynn Plourde
Just then Mom walked by. “Don’t tell me what?” she asked.
“Nothing, Lynda,” said Dad. “A guy secret.”
Mom sighed, patted Maxi, who was lying at Dad’s feet, and said, “Well then, Maxi and I won’t tell you our gal secret—that the average adult female Pyr weighs eighty-five to a hundred fifteen pounds and gains up to ten pounds a month during the first year. But, shhhhh, Maxi, don’t yip a word of it to the guys.” Mom walked off.
“How does she do that, Timminy? How does your mom get me every single time?”
“Um … Dad, you forget moms have eyes in the backs of their heads, plus it looks to me like you leave the door wide-open for her to walk right in and get you
Every.
Single.
Time.”
“Come on, Maxi.” Dad tugged on her collar. “Let’s go for a walk. You’re the only one in this house who doesn’t give me any lip.”
• • •
SECRET #4
Something can stare you in the face and you still can’t see it. Better take another gander.
CHAPTER 5
“IS THIS PART of our property?” I asked Dad as we headed into the woods behind our house.
“No, we have three acres. This is a public recreation area that anyone can use for hiking, snowshoeing, or whatever. This way, Timminy. I think the trail starts by that giant white pine up ahead.”
Dad was right. A trail wide enough for us to walk side by side zigzagged through the woods. It was easy to follow. Instead of a yellow brick road, it was a carpet of decayed leaves from last fall that shuffled under our feet.
The shade was refreshing, nature’s air conditioner on a hot summer day. Splatters of sunlight shimmered through the trees. And Maxi was in scent heaven as her snout sniffed every dead leaf and hidden plop of animal poop. We walked and walked and didn’t talk for the longest time.
Until finally, I let out the biggest sigh and said, “It’s nice … really nice out here. Much quieter than walking Back Cove in Portland with all the city sounds.”
“Yeah, a nice place to escape,” Dad said. “We might need it.”
“What do you mean?”
“School starts in two weeks. Are you ready?”
“The question is—are you ready, Dad?”
“Sure, a little nervous though.”
“You should be! Being an assistant principal is going to be a lot tougher than being a teacher. And I heard everyone hates assistant principals.”
“Gee, Timminy, way to make your old man feel better about starting his first administrative job. Does that mean you’re going to hate me too?”
“Nope. We know who buys the dog food around here. Don’t we, Maxi?”
Maxi didn’t notice I’d said her name. But why should she? She was busy slurping from a puddle.
“I don’t know why they put fifth grade in their middle school up here.”
“I told you small towns group grades differently,” Dad said. “They don’t have as many students or schools as a city so you’re stuck with me at the middle school.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about, Dad. Do you know how big eighth graders grow? Bigger than you! Heck, if there’s another shrimpy kid like me, one of those eighth graders could grab us, one in each hand, and jam us into the same locker. And we’d fit!”
Dad peered over his glasses. “That’s not going to happen, Timminy. You’re letting your imagination run wild again.”
“You’re right, Dad. That won’t happen.”
“Glad you’re coming to your senses.”
“Me too. What was I thinking? There’s no way there will be another kid as short as me at Skenago Middle School—unless they go across town and steal a kindergartener from the elementary school. That eighth grader will only have me to stuff into a locker with enough room left over for sports equipment.”
Dad shook his head.
I continued, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe fifth grade is the perfect year for homeschooling.”
“And who’s going to teach you? I’ll be at the middle school, and your mom is starting her new speech therapy job at the Head Start.”
“Maxi! Maxi will teach me. Won’t you, girl?” I grabbed Maxi’s leash from Dad and raced ahead. “Come on, Maxi, whatcha gonna teach me?”
“Timminy! You can’t run away from your problems.”
“I can try,” I shouted back at him. I let Maxi off her leash and said, “Let’s run away together, girl. You’re bigger than Toto, but follow the leaf trail and show me the way to Munchkin Land, where I’ll fit right in.”
Maxi raced ahead. Even her puppy legs were faster than my short legs.
“Catch her,” Dad yelled after me. “We don’t know where these trails go.”
I sprinted after her.
Woof-woof! I heard Maxi up ahead. Had she found Munchkin Land already?
I ran faster, stopped, and laughed. Dad caught up and started laughing too.
Maxi had treed a squirrel. She raced around and around the base of the tree as if she were a merry-go-round animal. We couldn’t tell if she thought the squirrel was new livestock to guard or an enemy wolf-squirrel she was protecting us from. Either way, I got dizzy watching her.
That’s when we heard it.
Vroom-vroom-vroom!
What sounded like an engine echoed through the trees, louder and louder and louder. I looked around and saw nothing. Then I glanced up. Couldn’t be a chopper, could it?
Dad shouted and pointed, “THERE!”
We dove out of the way just as a four-wheeling ATV raced around the bend.
“Hey!” the driver yelled. “You almost made me crash.”
“Slow down!” Dad hollered over the engine. “You almost crashed into us!”
“Jerk!” I yelled, crawling out of the bushes where I’d landed.
The driver killed the engine, jumped off his machine, and shoved a finger in my face, my face that was slightly above his belly button. “Who you calling a jerk, shrimp?”
Dad stepped between us. “Calm down, everyone.”
I turned my glare from the Jerk to Dad. What did he mean by everyone? There was only one jerk here. Why’d Dad choose this second to start practicing his assistant principal skills? I needed him to be a dad and stand up for his son and his poor defenseless puppy.
“Maxi!” I gasped, remembering she was still off her leash. She must have been scared to death. Where’d she gone during all the commotion?
The Jerk turned and looked where I was looking. “Aww!” he said. “What a cute puppy! Better keep her on a leash, though, to be safe out here.”
“Yeah, thanks to some people it’s not safe!”
Dad gave me one of those leave-it-alone looks.
I had no choice. With the Jerk and Dad, two against one, I didn’t stand a chance. Besides, I was more concerned about Maxi, who was still on her squirrel mission as if nothing had happened.
“You okay, girl?”
Maxi didn’t look at me, didn’t look at any of us.
Dad slipped her leash back on and tugged her toward us.
That’s when she saw the Jerk, wagged her tail, and licked his hand.
Now it was three against one.
“What kind of dog?” asked the Jerk.
“A Great Pyrenees,” answered Dad.
“Whoa! Aren’t those the kind that grow big, really big?”
Dad nodded. “She’ll probably get to be about a hundred pounds.”
“Hey, you’ll be able to ride her for a pony, kid.” He snorted at his own joke.
Before I could say anything, Dad nudged me back toward home.
“See you around,” he said. “Oh, and please slow down. We’re new to the neighborhood and our puppy likes going for walks on these trails.”
“Gotcha. I’ll keep an eye out for the Little Beast.”
My throat clenched, and I let out a low growl.
Dad nudged me again and whispered, “Keep walking. Just keep walking.”
>
As the Jerk revved his engine and drove off—a little slower (maybe by two miles per hour)—I growled louder. “Ooooh, he’s the beast! And why didn’t you stick up for me, Dad?”
“Let it go, Timminy. We’ll probably never see him again.”
“Dad, he obviously lives in this neighborhood. Do you think he’s from a street gang in Portland and followed us up here? We’ll see him again, probably at our school!”
Dad swallowed hard. “Nah! He’s big enough to be in high school.”
“Oh, Dad, high school kids ride motorcycles on real roads, not ATVs on trails. Eighth graders grow big, really big!”
Woof! Maxi barked to get us moving again. It was almost suppertime.
“Coming, girl,” Dad said.
As we walked back, Dad and I fell silent again. But we weren’t lost in the peace and beauty of the woods anymore. And we weren’t even thinking about the Jerk anymore.
No, this time we both stared at Maxi. How could she have missed all that commotion?
• • •
SECRET #5
The truth can’t stay a secret forever.
CHAPTER 6
WHEN WE GOT HOME, Mom had Maxi’s food waiting in her dish. Dad and I just stared as she ate.
“What’s up?” asked Mom.
I started, “Maxi … out there … the loudest ATV engine in the world, louder than a jet engine—”
“Not that loud,” Dad jumped in. “But really close to us and loud. And Maxi didn’t—”
“No, she didn’t,” I agreed.
“Spit it out. She didn’t what?” asked Mom.
Dad and I shouted, “HEAR!”
We filled Mom in. Dad played down the we-almost-got-crushed-by-the-ATV part and I played up the big-jerk part.
“Were you looking at her when the ATV approached?” asked Mom.
“Approached isn’t the right word, Mom. It zoomed! And we were just trying not to get kill—”
Dad cut me off: “We were busy getting out of the way of the four-wheeler, so, no, we weren’t watching Maxi and her reaction.”
“But she never noticed, Mom. She was still after that squirrel.”
“Maybe she was too distracted by the squirrel.”
“Maybe,” I said. I wanted to believe Maxi could hear.
“Help me finish getting supper ready, you two,” said Mom. “Then while we’re eating we can come up with a strategy to figure out if Maxi is really deaf, only hearing-impaired, or if it’s just your vivid imaginations.”
After supper, Dad and I did research while Mom tested Maxi. We found a Facebook page called “Deaf Dogs Rock.” We already knew Maxi rocked whether she was deaf or not. But when we clicked on their website and links, we discovered that more white dogs were born deaf than any other color—it’s some sort of genetic, pigment thing.
“But not all white dogs are deaf, right?” I asked.
Dad nodded, but his nod wasn’t very reassuring.
Dad and I peeked in on Mom, who sat in the recliner while Maxi dozed on her bed by the sliding glass doors. Mom had her phone open to the ringtones app. At random intervals, Mom tried different ringtones—but Maxi’s only actions were dream twitches.
Except the one time she jumped up and barked at a squirrel on the other side of the sliding doors. But had she heard the drumming ringtone right before she woke up and saw the squirrel? Or maybe her strong sniffer had smelled the squirrel through the door and that woke her up. Or maybe this was a dumb experiment. Maxi had never reacted when phones rang. Most dogs don’t—they’re dogs! Who’s gonna call a dog?
Our opinion would change every day, sometimes hourly …
“She’s not deaf,” I declared when Maxi raced into the kitchen as I microwaved popcorn.
“Try again, Sherlock Holmes,” answered Dad. “Remember that a dog’s sense of smell is thousands of times more powerful than a human’s. She didn’t hear the popcorn popping. She smelled it and hoped you’d share. Heck, even I smelled it with my inferior nose from the den—with the door closed! Why do you think I’m here? Gonna share that popcorn with your favorite father?”
Whenever Maxi was left home alone in her crate while we were away, she’d start barking as soon as one of us walked through the door. But did she hear the door? Hear us holler her name? Or did she somehow notice a change in light or air pressure when the door opened?
Or maybe it was in Maxi’s blood not to listen? A lot of owners on the “I Love Great Pyrenees” Facebook page complained their Pyr puppies were so stubborn, were such independent thinkers, that they would have sworn they were deaf.
We were stumped. Was Maxi deaf, or acting like a typical Pyr pup? So we made Maxi an appointment with a veterinary specialist in Portland for the next week. Maybe then we’d finally get an answer.
• • •
SECRET #6
Life is never black or white—even if you’re a WHITE Great Pyrenees.
CHAPTER 7
THE TWO-HOUR TRIP to the vet’s in Portland was going to be the longest car ride Maxi had taken.
I climbed into the backseat, buckled up, and spent the first twenty minutes with my head turned toward Maxi in her crate in the back while repeating, “It’s okay, girl. I’m right here. Don’t worry. It’s okay, girl. I’m right here. Don’t worry. It’s okay, girl. I’m …”
Mom cleared her throat.
“… right here. Don’t worry. It’s okay …”
Mom cleared her throat louder.
When I turned toward the front, she gazed at me in the rearview mirror and pulled her fingers across her lips … I nodded, zipped my lips, and all I could hear was …
Maxi snoring.
I smiled. “Guess my talking calmed her down and put her to sleep, Mom.”
“Timminy, we’re on our way to find out if Maxi’s deaf. She may not have heard anything you said. Lucky her, because your talking gave me a headache.”
“Sorry.”
I leaned my head against the window watching the blur of green as we headed south on I-95. Growing up in the city, I wasn’t sure how to tell oaks from maples from ash trees, but I did know pine trees, so I should thank whoever decided to call Maine the Pine Tree State.
After a half hour, Maxi was still snoring and Mom looked calmer so I asked, “How are they gonna figure out if Maxi’s deaf?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure. But I was reading up on it, and it sounds like they’ll do a BAER test.”
“Yikes! A bear test? Growling? What if it scares her?”
“Not that kind of bear, Timminy. But it is pronounced the same way. Reverse the vowels. It’s B-A-E-R and stands for Brainstem Auditory Evoked Response. Basically, they hook wires up to dogs’ ears, play sounds at different loudness and pitch levels, and watch a computer to see if the dogs’ brains register that they’re hearing the sounds.”
“So Maxi doesn’t have to do anything?”
“Nope. They use the BAER on human babies, too, to figure out if they’re deaf. Maxi might not be deaf-deaf. She might be hearing-impaired and be able to hear some sounds, like high-pitched or low-pitched ones. Any hearing would be good and could help keep her safe.”
I spent the rest of the ride mouthing the words, Hear the BAER growl, Maxi. Hear the BAER growl, Maxi. Hear the BAER growl, Maxi.
• • •
When we arrived at the vet’s, Maxi lunged forward on her leash as Mom tried to hold her back. She was determined to inspect the scent of every dog, cat, rabbit, gerbil, hamster, and guinea pig that had ever set paws in that vet’s office. Most people in the waiting room “aww-ed” over her. But one lady with two cat carriers tsk-tsked, “Get that big thing away from my little princesses.”
Mom said, “She’s just curious.”
Still, a vet assistant whisked us into a room and said, “Dr. Davis will be with you shortly.”
“Maxi,” I said, “how’s it feel to have someone think you’re too big? That’s never happened to me. You’re making me jealous, girl. P
romise you won’t ever become a princess.”
Dr. Davis came in then. Maxi went right up to her, sniffing her white coat. As she patted Maxi with one hand, she put a finger up to her lips signaling Mom and me to be quiet. A door behind us opened and the vet assistant stepped back into the room. She said, “Maxi. Maxi. MAXI,” louder and louder and louder each time. Maxi didn’t notice. She just kept sniffing and getting pats from Dr. Davis. Then the assistant shook a can full of coins. Maxi still didn’t react. Finally, the assistant blew a whistle. I couldn’t hear the whistle so no wonder Maxi didn’t notice that one.
“She’s deaf,” Dr. Davis said.
Mom asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I jumped in. Someone had to defend Maxi. “But I didn’t hear the whistle. You can’t expect Maxi to hear that thing.”
Dr. Davis looked right at me. “Yes, I can—it’s an ultrasound whistle that’s so high-pitched dogs can hear it, but humans can’t. She didn’t hear her name, the low-pitched coins, the high-pitched whistle—none of it.” Dr. Davis turned toward Mom and continued, “I could give her the BAER test to prove it to you, but that’s expensive. There’s no need. Sorry.”
I didn’t hear anything after “sorry.”
She wasn’t as sorry as I was.
Maxi didn’t deserve to be deaf. She never did anything to anyone. She was an innocent puppy.
Poor Maxi. She’d never hear my dad’s sneezes that could wake a dead person. She’d never hear my mom sing Elton John songs off-key while she vacuumed. She’d never hear me say, “I love you, girl.” I wanted to shout the whole two-hour ride back home, “Life’s not fair! Life’s not fair! Life’s not fair!”
But instead I was silent.
Just like Maxi’s world—silent.
• • •
SECRET #7
Bad news is still bad news—even if you’re expecting it.
CHAPTER 8
MAXI WAS DEAF.
DEAF.
In a way, it was a relief to know. I could stop worrying she might be deaf and start dealing with the reality—she was deaf. I couldn’t wish it away no matter how hard I tried. Like it never worked when I tried to wish away being short. (Those blowing-out-birthday-candles and first-star-I-see-tonight wishes are a joke. If I’m ever a parent, I’ll tell my kids, “There are some things you can’t change, kids, so don’t even bother trying. Toughen up and get used to them.”)