A Home for Goddesses and Dogs

by Leslie Connor

  “Of course,” said Eileen. “He’s our dog.”

  I looked at Guffer, who was settling his huge yellowness beside the couch. He laid his head down on the floor and let out a sigh that fluttered his black, rubbery lips in a noisy way.

  Aunt Brat and Eileen laughed right out loud.

  “There’s our pretty boy,” said Eileen. “He’s tired.” She cooed, “Our Guffster, our buddy, our pal.”

  They love that dog. . . .

  Alone in my room, I opened the old art box, lifted out the first tray, and picked the old dog tag out from between the two colored pencils. I turned it over in my fingers. I squinted at the phone number. I took out my phone. Slowly, I tapped Cici Hoover’s number in. I looked at it a good while before I hit the green button.

  The ringer purred in my ear, must have been at least six times. With each ring, I came closer to chickening out. Then it seemed like Cici Hoover was not going to pick up. I should hang up. Then there it was, a little set of clicks. A woman with a gravelly voice said: “This must be the place since you called it.”

  “R-right. Hello,” I said. “My name is—”

  “Leave me a message,” said the voice.

  Oh. Answering machine . . . landline. . . .

  “I might call ya back!” The woman cackled. Then of all the crazy things, I heard dogs barking in the background of the recording. A lot of dogs.

  In the next couple of seconds, thoughts flew at me: Do I leave a message? Try again later? Hang up? Have I even reached Cici Hoover? She hadn’t said.

  Meep! The answering machine was ready for me.

  “Ummm . . . yes, hello. My name is Lydia Bratch—”

  No, don’t give your full name!

  “Uh . . . I’m just wondering if maybe you are Cici Hoover? Because, well, I live in New York—I mean Connecticut, and . . .”

  Don’t say where you are!

  “W-we adopted a dog a while ago and, um . . . I found your number on his tag. He’s pretty big and blond like a shepherd, they said, with spots on his tongue, and, well, we’re having, um . . . trouble and I wondered if you know him and if maybe you could tell us anything that might help us. So, I’m just here. At this number. Okay and so thanksss you—I mean, thank you. Okay. Bye.”

  I hung up and clapped my phone to my chest. I looked at the ceiling. Oh man! What was that going to sound like coming out of her answering machine? Whoa, what a mess! Maybe Cici Hoover would think she’d been pranked on and ignore the whole thing.

  Still, for the next several hours I kept my phone close. What if she did call back—but during dinner or some other moment when I was sitting right beside Aunt Brat and Eileen and Elloroy? How was I going to take that call?

  I started willing Cici not to call me back. I guess it worked. Sunday evening came and I hadn’t heard a word.

  32

  The End of a Ragged Day

  I slid the art trunk out, thinking I’d put away the dog tag with Cici Hoover’s name and number on it. I pulled out all the trays full of postage stamps and paper scraps. The one on the bottom had little square compartments where I kept odd charms and tokens, coins and keys—all from flea market days with Mom. “Artifacts of everyday life.” That’s what she used to say. I dropped the dog tag in and stirred everything with one finger.

  My door latch clicked. Guffer burst in—big, panting Guffer, who’d never come up the stairs as far as I could recall. He saw me and stopped panting. His tail wagged. His ears dropped down in the sweet-dog way. His nose stretched forward and twitched.

  “Oh no . . .”

  Please don’t pee. . . .

  He strode straight at me and right over my wooden trays—big paws landing in them. Pencils shot out and rolled across pine floorboards. Tubes of paint crumpled out of shape—but didn’t puncture. Phew! Guffer hopped up and hind kicked as if something had insulted his delicate fat feet. He skittered away. I spread my arms over the trays to protect them. But back he came, stepping over my arms and onto my treasures again.

  “Guffer—pffff . . .” He brushed the long, long side of his body right across my face. “Oh! Pitoo-pitoo!” I spat dog hairs off my lips. He lay down, half-off and half-on my trays. He settled in with a big sigh. How was this comfortable? He tipped to one side, then turned himself upside down, belly-up, chest high, and throat exposed.

  The extreme well-being pose. . . .

  His full tail swept side to side. Paper bits went flying.

  “What the heck?” I said.

  I don’t pat you much. . . .

  I realized this as the dog stretched before me with his buttercream belly all laid out and a tiny triangle of blue origami paper stuck in the pink pit of his leg. I sighed.

  You are magnificent . . . you stinking runaway. . . .

  I reached and scratched his chest. One hind leg came up and kicked a few times. I scratched faster. The leg whisked the air. When I stopped, the leg stopped and Guffer waited, still upside down.

  He drew breath. I thought he might sneeze. Instead he said, “Guh-guh-guff . . .” He made the same sound again in a higher pitch. He held a whiny little note on the end—one I thought might go on endlessly.

  “Guff.” I started to laugh. “You big baby.” His tail twitched and swept. “Guffer, get off my stuff. Come on, buddy.” He stretched a leg toward me and pressed his huge paw and big black toes against my shin. “Guff! Ow!” He pushed harder. I started to laugh in spite of the sizable toenails that were pressing dents in me.

  Aunt Brat came to the doorway and saw me laughing. “Oh my goodness! Guffer? What’s he’s doing up here?”

  “Don’t ask me,” I said, still giggling.

  “He’s pushing on you, isn’t he?” She laughed lightly. “Guffer! Don’t hurt Lydia. Oh, you funny, funny dog!”

  With that, he gave me a final shove. I was laughing so hard now, I tipped over onto my side. “Umph!”

  “Oh, Lyddie! Wha-ha!” Aunt Brat burst out laughing. She bent forward and hugged herself at the waist. “Are you all right?” she could barely ask. I could barely answer.

  He stayed in my room all evening, even when Aunt Brat went back downstairs. I tugged my art trays out from under him. He picked up his head and looked at me but then set it down again. He dozed, with his lionlike eyes tightly closed. He began to dream and I watched the black dots on that twitching muzzle—the places where his pale whiskers grew from. I almost reached out to stroke that butterscotch fur. But I stopped to think, What did the dog really want?

  To sleep . . . to dream. . . .

  To have peace from what this ragged day had shown him—a cold-souled man shouting threats and a noisy machine on four fearsome wheels. I remembered the feeling I’d had while holding the dog to my chest at the edge of the Capperows’ field. We’d been two shuddering creatures in that moment. Hugging him had comforted me.

  I let the dog sleep.

  I made perfect order of everything in my art trays—I handled every piece of thread, paper, yarn, every old button, each secondhand ribbon.

  Make something, Lydia. . . . Make something. . . .

  33

  The Perimeter

  Guffer had seemed so afraid of Moss Capperow’s uncle and his four-wheeler that I didn’t believe he’d been to that farm multiple times. I wondered what Moss would say about that. But I didn’t want to ask him.

  Aunt Brat and Eileen and I buckled down on the dog with what they dubbed “perimeter training.” (They made that up.) Eileen brought a long leash home from the Feed and we took turns walking Guffer around the inside edge of the woods. We reeled him in if he went beyond the clearing. We were careful not to let him get into the dreaded backward position where he could pull out of his collar. We gave him treats for staying inside the perimeter. We told him he was a good dog.

  When Eileen went out with him, she tottered because of her short leg. (I-lean.) She kept the yellow dog fairly close to her side. Aunt Brat went striding with him, possibly rushing to finish so that she could get on with he
r own constitutional out to who knew where.

  Aunt Brat’s walks were sacred. I’d watched her disappear into the trees at the far corner of the pasture plenty of times. Eileen had said it more than once: “Rain or shine, or ice on the vine, she goes. She’ll switch to her skis once the snow comes.”

  For Guffer, the week was a bit like boot camp and it seemed like “perimeter training” was beginning to stick. We tested him, letting him out on his own for a few minutes at a time. He’d settle on the porch, almost like the good guard dog he might have been if he weren’t such a chicken. We were certain that he had not been back to the Capperow farm.

  But often, around suppertime, Guffer would hear something from inside the house—something the rest of us couldn’t hear. He’d rush to the back window, slipping on his toenails, back hairs high. He’d stare at the window and rumble. Then he’d bark so hard, his feet came off the ground.

  “What, what?” Aunt Brat said. “Why so nervous, boy?”

  “He knows there’s something out there,” I said.

  “Like what? Raccoon? Fox? Bear?”

  “Hmm . . . nasty farmer? On a four-wheeler?” I suggested.

  “Oh. Do you think?”

  I did.

  I think all of us were holding out hope that “perimeter training” would somehow help with housetraining, too. He was still making mistakes. We needed a magic trick.

  One evening, exactly as four bowls of butternut squash soup and four plates of green salad with apples and ginger and feta cheese had been set on our table, Guffer circled into the living room and squatted.

  “Ack! No!” I unceremoniously dropped the breadbasket on the table. I let go a heavy sigh. “I just walked him around the perimeter. He had opportunity. Ugh! Cover my bowl,” I said, feeling defeated. “I’ll take him out again.”

  But there came Eileen saying, “Nope! Nope! He’s not going outside.” She took the dog’s collar and ushered him straight into the crate.

  “Uh-oh,” said Elloroy. He was already sitting down.

  “But he hates that. He has to pee,” I said. I looked at Aunt Brat. She was as surprised as I was. Eileen closed the door to the crate and latched it. I have to say, Guffer looked puzzled too.

  “He doesn’t really have to pee,” she said. “And yes. He hates the crate. And we hate it when he does that.” She pointed her finger at the dark circle on the rug and stared at the spot.

  “But the crate is supposed to signal bedtime, and when we are going to be away, isn’t that right?” Aunt Brat asked. “Are we going to eat our dinner while he watches us?”

  “I am,” said Elloroy. He scraped a curl of butter onto his knife.

  Eileen snatched the throw blanket from the couch and threw it over the crate. “There!”

  “Oh, Eileen!” Aunt Brat protested. “That seems worse! Poor dog! Now he can’t even see—”

  “Nope. Nope. No feeling sorry. We are going to try this, Bratches. Let’s say the crate is for when we are unavailable.”

  “Well, I’m just wondering about consistency,” Aunt Brat huffed.

  We had a rather quiet, tense supper. Eileen kept reminding Aunt Brat and me, “Don’t look. Don’t look.” In truth there wasn’t much to see. Guffer was covered. And he was quiet.

  After supper, I fixed eyes on Eileen and she finally gave me a nod. “Okay, go spring him and take him outside. No fanfare,” she insisted.

  Well, we didn’t enjoy it, but we used the new strategy the following night too. We gave him the chance to “not violate the rug,” as Eileen put it, but when he did, we crated him again. “It’s the same as the shunning thing,” Eileen reasoned. “When we don’t like what he does, we ignore him. It works like a charm. With this dog, we just need more charms.”

  “I can’t argue,” said Aunt Brat. “Where did this latest tip come from?”

  “I made it up,” Eileen admitted. “But I got the idea from Lydia.”

  “From me?”

  I’m not the dog person. . . .

  “Yep. A few nights back the Guffster peed the rug, as the Guffster so does—or so used to do,” Eileen said with optimism. “You went to take him outside and you told him, ‘I’ll take you out. Your favorite thing.’ You mumbled it. Sarcastic-like. And you were right. Going outside is his favorite thing, next to treats. So I got to thinking about that—”

  “So, you’re saying, every time he ruins the rug we . . . reward him with one of his favorite things to do?”

  “Huh-haw! You speak dog now. How does it feel?” Eileen beamed, and I couldn’t help grinning.

  On the third night Guffer circled into the living room and, surprisingly, he lay down. He rested his chin on his curled paw and moved nothing but his eyeballs as he watched us put our dinner on the table. While we ate, he closed his lids. Even Elloroy glanced into the living room and gave a nod.

  Guffer’s rug-wrecking days were done.

  34

  Being She-Janus

  February . . . the time of the Storm Moon.

  My mother was not there to say the words to me. I never guessed I’d miss hearing them. (To be honest, I used to roll my eyes.)

  Mom . . . I was actually paying attention. . . . Storm Moon . . . time for planning your future. . . .

  Mine seemed hard to see.

  Begin spring cleaning . . . sweep out cobwebs . . .

  Well, I’d been doing that.

  Burn purifying incense and white candles . . .

  Mom had loved candles, but they were too dangerous in a house with an oxygen tank.

  Prepare for new growth . . .

  Well, maybe somewhere.

  The Storm Moon did bring storms—the first heavy snows I’d seen in Chelmsford.

  There were school closings, and I was alone at the house with Elloroy and the dogs more than before. A plow came to clear the drive on Pinnacle Hill. But the porch steps and paths all had to be shoveled, snow had to be swept off the woodpile. I stayed busy, and most of the time Guffer was not far from my side—even at night. Ever since he’d quit soiling the rug, he could be out of the crate at night and free to choose where he wanted to sleep. Most nights, he chose me. He’d land beside my bed—a heap and sigh—and he’d still be there in the morning.

  On the snowy evenings, while Aunt Brat was still making her way back from the university, I’d leash Guffer and go down the hill to pick up the mail so she wouldn’t have to stop. (The boxy car did better on the snowy hill when it could have a running start.)

  Here in Chelmsford we had a mail carrier named Jaycinda. I’d seen her often, wearing bright athletic leggings, tall boots, and an anorak. She’d hop out of the truck and sink her whole leg into the snowbank if that’s what it took to get the mail into the box.

  After a daylong storm with snow still falling, I doubted her. But when I popped the door to the mailbox, a neat stack of envelopes had been delivered.

  “That’s because Jaycinda is a goddess,” I told Guffer.

  Apparently, Jaycinda also delivered our firewood. I hadn’t seen that firsthand—not yet. But it was a household topic. There was a precise time to call to get on the delivery list. It gave me a little frosting of guilt to think how much heat was being lost through the crawl space—my goddess gallery.

  Guffer’s collar jingled as he shook the falling snow off his coat. I tucked our mail inside my jacket—well, not our mail; it was theirs: Aunt Brat’s, Eileen’s, and Elloroy’s. Nothing ever came for me. I chirped to the dog, “Ready? Let’s go home!” (“Home” was a word we were trying to teach him.) He bounced along beside me. This dog loved snow.

  For fun, I crossed into the yard where the snow was over my boots. Guffer tucked his nose deep down. He came up, shook, and dove down again.

  I bent low to scoop him a snowball. The handle of the leash slipped right over my hand. “Oops-oops!” I reached for the leash and missed. Guffer flashed me one of his dog grins and hopped away, the leash making a whip in the air.

  “Come!” I tried. He didn’t. But
he didn’t bolt either. He continued up the hill, staying just out of my reach.

  I yipped into the air. Guff stopped still. He looked at me, head cocked. I let myself fall backward into the snow, arms flung. He was probably going to ditch me, but I doubted he’d go far—not so close to his own suppertime. I raised my head and saw him pushing a trail through the snow, going home.

  I lay back in the silent hollow of snow. I watched flakes falling toward me. I felt them touch down on my cheeks and nose. Mom and I had made the She-Janus—how many weeks ago?

  It was February now . . . counting back to early December . . . so maybe ten weeks? . . .

  Cold white snow was falling on me. Layers of white, just like She-Janus. But I felt warm at my middle—like I could melt my way deeper into the bed of snow. Could the falling snow cover me? Take my oxygen? Would I turn blue? The thought filled me with an odd peace.

  Mom . . . did it feel like this? . . . The quiet . . . it really is all right. . . .

  “Lydia! . . . Lydia!” I opened my eyes wide. I pushed up to sitting. I blinked snow off my lashes.

  Aunt Brat was charging toward me, plunging leg after leg into the snow. Behind her I could see the boxy car stopped in the middle of the hill. “Good God! Are you all right?” She halted in front of me, taking hard breaths, her long gray coat covered in snow.

  “I’m fine!” I said. “Fine! I was just—”

  “Lying in the snow!” Aunt Brat finished for me. “Didn’t you hear me hollering? I thought you were—”

  “Dead?” I said, and then I almost burst out laughing, because that was Elloroy’s line.

  “No, not dead,” she said. “Just . . . I don’t know. Oh, Lyddie.” She let go a huge sigh. Actually, it might have been a huff—at me. I couldn’t blame her. I realized what she’d seen: Girl in the snow. Not moving. Make that fairly recently orphaned, coffee-drinking, semisecretive girl with boxes under her bed, lying in the snow. Not moving. Oh. My poor aunt.

  She reached both arms toward me. She opened and closed her hands as if to say to, Grab on. I felt so much like my six-year-old self that I was surprised to be tall when we finally got me to my feet. I paused, taking in the scent of snow and something else—like sweet hay, like the barns of Chelmsford.