What the Dog Said

by Randi Reisfeld

  Design # 2: Sequined reflective vests to wear at night with slim, stylish side packs.

  Design #3: Denim outfits with selection of custom patches depicting peace signs, Harley-Davidson bikes, whatever the disabled person’s cause is.

  If the admissions people at Parsons judged Regan by the structure, grammar, or even content of her essay, I had my work cut out for me. On the other hand, if humility and killer designs counted, she was, like, so totally in!

  24

  Profoundly Regan

  Night stretched into day, homework into late-night TV, sleep into wakefulness. By the minute, my stomach twisted into more knots. Several times a day, I’d ask, “Are you sick, Rex? Should we go to the vet?” Even as I asked, it was clear the dog was as healthy as he’d ever been. He hoovered his food, begged for more. He was playful, emotive, and vocal even. Just not with words.

  I was completely over-the-top obsessing about Rex. It’d been days—days!—and the dog still hadn’t uttered one word. He didn’t respond to my entreaties or fistfuls of treats, my pouts or shouts. The irony was inescapable. A dog not talking made less sense to me than the other way around.

  In spite of that, I was having banner days in school. I’d scraped by in math, rocked science, and met Mr. Kassan’s great expectations with my essay on The Pigman & Me. The teacher was all over it, even posted it on the bulletin board with a chunky A+ stamped at the top. Best of all, the language arts teacher didn’t ruin it by saying something cheesy like “Guess you were ready.”

  It was only at the final bell on one random Tuesday that I realized I hadn’t thought about my dad all day long. It felt weird, but not betrayal-weird. Honestly, I was more concerned about Rex.

  Plus, I’d yet to tell LuLu of my plans. Training was over and Canine Connections was closed until September. The staff was probably occupied now that the recipients were there for their orientation and training. I could have left a voice mail, but that felt wrong. If I was definite about pulling Rex from the program, I wanted to take the dog over there, thank her for everything.

  Maybe I wanted her to say that keeping him was okay.

  Time was running out. I’d have to reach her before Sunday, the big graduation ceremony when the pairings were announced. It wouldn’t be fair to promise Rex to a new family.

  This family needed him. I needed him to talk! I started sounding like Annie Sullivan, trying to coax a word out of Helen Keller, or my French teacher, tirelessly repeating proper pronunciation. I got down to his level and slowly said things he associated with yummy-ness, like “Snausage.” Or “Pup-Peroni.” Or “I love you.”

  Another time, I went into scolding-mommy mode.

  I swore I’d withhold treats until he told me—in words—that he wanted some. Rex reacted by snatching the Scooby Snack out of my hand.

  I told him he wasn’t allowed on the bed until he asked properly. The disobedient dog jumped up anyway.

  I threatened him with not getting up early to walk him—unless he woke me verbally. He blithely let himself out. He had been trained, after all, to open doors.

  Finally, I tried to scare him into talking.

  I warned him that I’d go ahead and send him off with another family unless he talked. Rex reacted by displaying his normal over-the-top good nature.

  Then I got really desperate. I said I wasn’t petting him anymore. And that he was banned from my room. I’d kick him out if he tried. I’d lock the door.

  Not even those dire threats worked. He rolled over on his back, waiting for me to rub his tummy. It was too hard not to.

  When he still hadn’t uttered a word by Saturday night, I lied spectacularly, and shouted that if he didn’t say anything, I might have to stop loving him. Hearing those words coming out of my mouth, and still not one from Rex, tripped a switch in me. I went on a rant, like the crazy person I used to think I was. It went something like this: “What’s wrong with you? Why are you doing this to me? Are you punishing me? I can’t believe you’d be so selfish! After all we did for you! I hate you!!” That last bit came with major sobbing.

  And banging on the door.

  “You want to dial it down, sister?” Regan demanded as she stormed in. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “On what, yourself?”

  “Oooh, back to your usual sarcastic self, I see. If you must know, I’m creating a new fashion.” Regan started to describe it, but I cut her off.

  “You don’t understand. Something’s wrong with Rex!”

  My sister shifted her gaze to the pooch, whose eyes shone and tail wagged happily. She grabbed the softball and tossed it onto my bed. In a microsecond, Rex leaped up and brought it back to her.

  “Seems fine to me,” she said. “He’s acting like a dog.”

  “That’s just the problem!” My voice was strained, loud. “He’s not just a dog!”

  “Well, I know that,” Regan said.

  “You do?” Was she about to tell me something … huge? Was it too much to hope that Regan understood about Rex? That’s why she agreed to let him stay?

  “You’re not just any dog, are you, Rex?” Regan cooed. “You’re not cute, but it’s like the way designers see their fashions, like their babies. Other people might think they’re ugly, but to the person who created them, they’re beautiful.”

  I thought my head would explode, but my composure was first to go. I was now half screeching, half wailing—all begging. “He talks! Regan, he talks. Really. I’m not crazy. Rex has been talking to me ever since the day at the shelter. That’s why I adopted him. He told me to.” I collapsed onto the floor and waited for it. For Regan to tell me I’m wackadoodle, or be so horrified, to call Mom. Or 911. Or … simply roll her eyes and walk away.

  But Regan had not moved. She stood stock-still, arms crossed, shifting her eyes from Rex to me and back again. Almost as if she was taking me seriously.

  Regan lowered her whole self onto the carpet and began to gently pet Rex. Something she rarely, if ever, did. At least without complaining that he needed a shampoo, smelled funny, or should go to a doggy spa. Meanwhile, Rex responded to her touch with the sweet sounds of doggy bliss.

  Finally Regan turned to me. “Remind me—what’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” I whined, “is that he stopped. He stopped talking—completely. It’s been, like, over a week. All he’s done is bark, whimper, and make the sound he’s making now.”

  Regan was silent.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” I asked the obvious question. And before I could stop myself, I dissolved into unpretty sobs.

  Regan uncoiled herself, got up, and strode over to my nightstand, where she plucked a tissue out of the box. “Here.” She waved it in my face. “Blow your nose.”

  I obeyed.

  Then Regan knelt again, this time in front of me. She tucked my hair, which had stuck onto my wet cheek, behind my ear. I looked at her, bewildered.

  “Here’s the thing, Grace,” she said carefully. “This dog has always been … I don’t know … like there’s something different about him. But to say he talks? That’s pretty over-the-top, even for you.”

  “So you don’t believe me. Why should—”

  She cut me off. “I do. I believe that you believe it. That he talked, I mean.”

  I croaked, “Why did he stop, then?”

  And then Regan said something that broke and healed my heart at the same time.

  “Maybe you finally heard what he had to say.”

  25

  Some Angels Have Wings, Others Have Tails

  It was the last Sunday in June. I was in the Jupiter High School auditorium, sweltering one minute, chilled the next—uncomfortable in every way possible. But there was nowhere else in the world I belonged at the moment. The place was packed, the seats filled with friends and relatives of the kids about to get their new dogs. Their buzzy excitement and continuous camera clicks created an exhilarating vibe that echoed off the walls like surround sound in the movies.


  We trainers were in the first row center, left to right, Megan, Maria, Lissa, JJ, Trey. And me. We all wore identical rust-colored Canine Connections T-shirts—“No one can really rock rust,” as Regan so charmingly pointed out—but the message printed on the back overcame that less-than-attractive color: I SUPPORT COLD NOSES, WARM HEARTS, HAPPY TAILS.

  Six examples of the best of those sat obediently at our feet. The dapper dogs had that just-shampooed look, fluffy, soft, clean. Their attire was even less flattering than ours, but the message did, in fact, rock. They wore sage-green reflective vests identifying them as service dogs. Each one—Romeo, Daffodil, Chainsaw, Otis, Clark Kent, and Rex—was highly skilled, obedient, intelligent, loyal. Each was a symbol of hope and unconditional love.

  On stage were the winners of a life-changing lottery. Through other eyes, they might have represented a ragtag roundup of kids usually referred to as disabled, handicapped, wheelchair-bound, visually challenged. They appeared broken.

  Not to this audience, not in this space, not now. Today, they radiated hope and unshakable belief. This was partly because of us, because of what we had accomplished with our dogs over the past months. Their lives were about to change; they’d soon become more independent, less pitied. More normal.

  My heart hurt.

  I did not want to be there.

  Of course I was proud of Rex—and of myself. I’d even admit to a tinge of excitement. Still, a black cloud hung over me. I couldn’t have been more terrified, and that terror threatened to take me down. Knowing I was doing the right thing did not quell the voice in my head that was wailing, How will I live without Rex?

  The staticky buzz of the switched-on microphone signaled that the ceremony was about to begin. LuLu took the stage. As opposed to her usual dusty jeans, sneakers, and “let’s get to work” attitude, she was wearing beige linen pants, pretty pumps, and an ear-to-ear grin. “Welcome, everyone, to graduation day!”

  An enthusiastic round of applause greeted her.

  “Today,” she said, “one journey has ended and another is about to begin. For our trainers”—she paused to acknowledge us—“this is the finish line of a long, sometimes bumpy, but always thrilling road. You had a goal, and now you’ve reached it. We are all very proud of you, and offer you our deepest thanks.”

  The applause was heartfelt—and loud. Someone whistled. Please don’t ask us to stand, I prayed. I slunk down a little in my chair, only to have Mom, sitting directly behind me, tap me on the shoulder. She whispered, “Don’t slouch. Be proud of what you did. We are.”

  Regan, perched next to Mom, was busy taking pictures. Not for any family scrapbooks, nor for me, but to attach to her essay. I had to hand it to the girl—she’d always been on point.

  “For our clients, the brave, adventurous group behind me”—LuLu swiveled her neck and smiled at them—“today marks the first day of the rest of your new, independent, and, we believe, happier lives.”

  Unsurprisingly, the shout-out to the kids got the biggest applause, rollicking cheers, a standing ovation.

  “There’s still a lot of work to do,” LuLu cautioned. “Starting tomorrow, our recipients and the dogs they’ve been paired with begin their customized training. You’ve been through orientation and the learning process. Now, your dogs will come live with you in our dorm. Together, you and your new best friend will learn how to do exactly what you need him or her to. The next week will be intense, but it’s the time for you to bond.”

  Was it also the time for me and Rex to “unbond”? Was that possible to do? The boulder in my throat blocked my airway and a tear spilled over my lower eyelid. For the longest time, I couldn’t cry. Now, I couldn’t stop.

  Of course my snap-happy sister picked that exact moment to materialize in front of me and take a picture.

  “Delete it!” I whispered angrily.

  “No,” she assured me, “it’s going to be amazing—it’ll show how hard it is to give the dog up. It’s the perfect narrative to go with my essay. You taught me that!”

  Great.

  “Let’s get this party started!” LuLu exclaimed. “When I call your name, please join me at the microphone. Then I’ll call the trainer of your new dog to hand the leash over to you.”

  For some reason, right then, I remembered my cousin’s wedding, the moment when her parents “handed her off,” gave the daughter they’d raised over to her new husband. At the time, I’d seen one family expanding, another shrinking.

  It felt very similar.

  The ceremony began. The pairings were going as I’d predicted. Megan was the picture of pride and perfection as she regally climbed the few steps to the stage. She handed Romeo over to Hailey, the girl who needed crutches to get around, who wanted to chase boys at recess. Hailey blushed when the handsome chocolate Lab stood next to her.

  Daffodil, the yellow Lab, was paired with the wheelchair-bound Kaitlyn. The dog immediately placed her head in Kaitlyn’s lap. The girl shrieked with joy. “Mom!” she called. “Look! She already loves me!”

  Chainsaw would help Joss, the blind teen, find his way around a new, unfamiliar college campus. They were both beaming.

  Otis looked ready to lift the spirits of the sad boy with a respiratory disorder. The kid looked anything but sad right now.

  And little Clark Kent, a hoot as usual, bounded up the steps to meet Daniel, the autistic child. Daniel instantly wraped his bird-like arms around the dog’s neck.

  There was only one pairing left. Rex had been assigned to Kim, the girl with cerebral palsy. I stood … and froze. I could not go through with this.

  The room became quiet. I heard my mom’s sharp intake of breath and Regan stage-whisper, “Go!” I ignored them. Instead of leading Rex to the stage, I kneeled next to him—this angel who’d seen me through the darkest of days.

  And yet somehow I knew. This moment was not for caving in to selfish needs. This was my moment to be brave. Dad trusted I’d know the difference. Somewhere, he still does. I pressed my cheek to Rex’s bristly muzzle and whispered, “If you need me, I’m always here.”

  The tear made it only halfway down my cheek. Rex raised his padded paw and—maybe he’d meant to, maybe it was an accident—wiped it away. I led Rex up to the stage, and that’s when I heard it. I would never know if the dog said it or I’d imagined it.

  “Say good night, Gracie.”

  The next moment, Rex was at Kim’s feet, her angel now.

  Epilogue

  June, one year later

  “Must you pass every car on the road?” I said to Regan—aka Lead Foot—as she raced down the turnpike. “You’re going to get a ticket.”

  “No, I won’t,” she said, brushing me off. “Anyway, today will go fine. Stop being so nervous.”

  “I’m not.” (I’m lying.)

  “Right.” She brushed her golden hair over her shoulder.

  “And would you mind keeping both hands on the wheel?” I needled her.

  Regan’s response was to turn up the volume on the radio. I gnashed my teeth. She knew I hated the song.

  My relationship with my sister hasn’t changed much in a year. She’s still a crap driver, and our “carguments” have become legendary. I confess: a part of me is grateful for this return to normalcy. ’Cause it won’t last. Regan leaves soon for New York. Yup, she got accepted at Parsons. Her “iWin” streak remains unchallenged. I’m happy for her.

  Besides, I couldn’t say anything else to annoy her. Regan was doing me a huge favor, agreeing to drive me two and a half hours—each way—to and from Orlando.

  Orlando is where Kim lives. I’ll be seeing Rex for the first time in a year.

  I wasn’t just nervous. I was terrified.

  Would seeing him remind me how much I missed him? Does he talk to Kim? Would he talk to me? Would he even remember me?

  I got the answer to that last question practically the minute I rang the bell. The door swung open and next thing I knew, I was on the floor. Rex couldn’t contain
himself. The big galumph of a dog went wild at my arrival. His over-greeting involved barking, serious tail action, and launching himself in the air—I know he only meant to put his paws on my shoulders—to say, “I remember you! I love you!” While I was down, he licked my face like an ice-cream cone that was about to melt.

  That’s how the visit started, everyone belly-laughing at the lunatic dog. Eventually, Rex ran out of steam and we settled down to talk, Kim, her parents, and me.

  Reality check: I’d forgotten how odd Kim looked. Twisting and turning, unable to control her muscles, her head and neck lolled back and forth almost constantly. Her words came out thickly, as if her tongue was in the way. But nothing could prevent her from telling me how much she loved Rex. She glowed the entire time.

  Rex really had changed Kim’s life. He goes to school with her. He wears a harness for Kim to grasp, which helps her balance. Best of all, the scruffy mutt attracted the attention of her classmates immediately. Rex was his usual friendly self. And once the kids got to know Rex, they got to know Kim—not as someone disabled who made them uncomfortable, but as just another kid at school. Bonus: for the first time in her life, Kim had a best friend.

  I listened carefully for any clue about Rex talking. No one mentioned it. Kim and her family were curious about me. What had made me decide to adopt and train him? What was my saga?

  Rex came to sit by my side. The old habit of stroking that prickly-fuzzy spot on the top of his head between his ears came back to me. Before I knew it, I was telling the whole story. About my dad, about how Rex unexpectedly gave me courage and lots of laughs. He helped me get through the darkest time of my life.

  The only thing I failed to mention was the talking-dog bit. Guess that’ll stay between me and Rex.

  When I finished, Kim looked at her mom excitedly. “Can we give it to her now?” she asked.

  Kim’s mom nodded and handed her daughter a gift-wrapped package, which Kim instantly thrust at me.

  “This is so not necessary!” I protested.