THE EIGHTY-FIRST DAY . . .
(Monday, August 31, morning)
MACK:
“Mister Morse.”
“Mister
Thompkins.”
“Please
reconsider.”
“I can’t do it. I get
nervous.”
“May I remind you
that Old Dogs is a privately funded program. Publicity is
critically important. We do not get many interview requests, and I
am loath to let this opportunity pass us by.”
“I’m not real
comfortable with folks knowing stuff about me.”
“Your comfort is not
the primary concern here. If you don’t do the interview, you will
be in breach of our signed agreement. I will have no choice but to
terminate your contract and remand the dog to Animal Control. We’ve
put too much time and money into Boo to restart him with another
trainer. Your choice, Mister Morse.”
“What if I mess
up?”
“Excuse
me?”
“The AW told me he
was hoping to get some of the other fellas training here too. But
if I blow the interview, you won’t bring the program here, to the
island.”
“Will you do the
interview, or not?”
(The next morning, Tuesday, September 1, the eighty-second
day . . .)
The dude they match
me up with is all right. He’s in one of those alternative to
incarceration programs where they try to get you a job based on
what you like, go figure.
“What I really want
to do is be a sports reporter,” he says. “Free tickets to the
games, like that. Meantime, I have to do this kind of
shit.”
“All right, then.” Me
and Boo take him down to the junk field to show him how we play
soccer. “Which it’s called tackle soccer with Boo. He was a rotten
fetcher at first, till I got the peanut butter working. You bring
me back that ball, you’re swimmin’ in Skippy. He got it quick after
that.”
“Mm,” dude says,
writing it down. Kind of cool, him writing down what I’m saying,
like I’m a famous type of celebrity or something.
I kick the ball way
deep into the field, over the junk heap. Boo runs for it and
doesn’t come back.
“C’mon,” I say to my
reporter. We hustle over the junk heap. Boo’s on his belly,
whimpering.
“What’s he doing?”
reporter says.
“See, about two weeks
ago, we were out here, and he happened on this dead mouse in that
exact spot. He real gentle nudged it with his nose to try to wake
it up. He was fairly crying, I swear, the moaning he was doing. I
pulled him off the mouse, but the next day, he cut straight through
the field to this same spot, looking for that mouse, which it must
have been carried off by a crow or such, right?”
“Mm,” kid grunts,
writing it down.
“Every day he does
the same thing.”
“Mm.” Man, he
scribbles fast. “Dog’s in love with a dead mouse.
Potent.”
“My friend says that
word all the time.”
“He a
writer?”
“He reads a
bunch.”
“Then he’s an
inside-the-head variety of writer,” dude says. “If you want to be a
writer of any sort, you got to know potent.”
“Well, all right
then.”
“Mm.”
“Leave it,” I say to
Boo.
He’s whimpering and
looking back over his shoulder at where the mouse died as I lead
him away. He follows me lockstep, no leash.
Guard who’s watching
us says, “I don’t know how you did it. I was sure that there dog
was untrainable. Wash is right. You’re some kind of
magic.”
I play it like it’s
no big deal, but really I’m tingling with self-respect for myself,
and self-respect for Boo too. I kind of look out of the side of my
eyes to make sure the dude wrote down that the guard said I was
magic, but I can’t make out his scratch. “You happen to catch that
last little part there, with the guard?”
“I did.”
“All right,
then.”
We walk the kid to
where his escort will take him to the bus. The first razor-wire
gate rolls open, and he steps into the slot, and the gate closes.
We wait for the second gate to open before we say good-bye, because
then he can leave fast. You don’t want to take a long time saying
good-bye when you’re locked up.
“What name you want
for your fake name?” dude says.
“Fake
name?”
“They won’t let me
use a real one.”
“I don’t care about
it if you use my real name.” I was kind of hoping Céce would see it
somehow.
“I know, but it’s the
rules. Something about being a juvenile and stuff, you can’t let
out the dude’s ID.”
“Like it matters when
you’re locked up.”
“I know. How ’bout
Ed?” dude says.
“Ed? You serious?”
“Fredo then. Fredo’s
a cool name.”
“Fredo’s all right.
How ’bout Zeke? Yeah, let’s do ’er Zeke.”
“All right then, Zeke
buddy.” He writes it in there. “I’ll call the dog Cosmos, if that’s
all right, on account he is one of the biggest pits I’ve ever
seen.”
“Cosmos. I like
that.”
“Yeah. I like using
imagery and that kinda shit when I write, you know? Gives you more
of the feel for the dog’s soul, see?”
“Mm.”
“Mm.”
“No pictures then,
huh? For this here article?”
“Nope.”
“Not even of
Boo?”
“No names, pictures,
or videos. No identifying geographical markers.”
“Anybody gonna look
at this thing?”
“I know. Prob’ly not.
It’s like for this lame-ass animal shelter website or whatever.
They’re doing an online newsletter type of thing to raise money for
your program, I think. But hey, I do a good job on this one, and
maybe I get something better next time around. You gotta have hope,
right buddy?”
“You do. You got to
have hope.”
The second gate rolls
open.
“Mack, buddy, thanks,
all right? Y’all helped me a bunch.”
“Good luck to you,
man.”
“Yeah, man. Luck
back. Hey?”
“Yup?”
“Peace. Y’all stay
cool now.”
“Yeah. Y’all stay
free.”
Me and Boo watch him
disappear. I crouch and headlock Boo and scratch him up real good
behind his ears. “Been three weeks since she last visited, Boo. I
think she’s on her way, bud. On her way to peace of
mind.”