What the Dog Said Read online

  What the Dog Said

  Randi Reisfeld

  with HB Gilmour

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1 Dog Picks Girl

  2 Moving In

  3 First Licks

  4 Canine Connections

  5 At Risk

  6 What the Dog Heard

  7 What the Dog Saw

  8 Not Forgetting

  9 How a Color-Blind Dog Knows to Stop at Red Lights

  10 Truth or Dare

  11 Lost

  12 What if I’m Not Crazy?

  13 Mall Tease

  14 Hoots and Boots

  15 Confessions

  16 A Wheel Scare

  17 Secrets in the Sand

  18 Magical Thinking

  19 Life Unleashed

  20 Testing Rex

  21 Say Good Night, Gracie

  22 Say Anything

  23 The Essay!

  24 Profoundly Regan

  25 Some Angels Have Wings, Others Have Tails

  Epilogue June, one year later

  Acknowledgments

  Imprint

  This book is dedicated to the memory of HB Gilmour.

  I hope I’ve done you proud, my friend.

  He wasn’t the most courageous of dogs. Nor, it must be said, was [he] very bright. But he was loyal beyond measure and knew what mattered. Din-din, walks, balls. But most of all, his family. His heart filled his chest and ran to the end of his tail and the very tips of his considerable ears. It filled his head, squeezing out his brain. But [the dog] … while not particularly clever was the smartest creature [his owner] knew. Everything he knew he knew by heart.

  —LOUISE PENNY, Bury Your Dead:

  A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

  1

  Dog Picks Girl

  Cages. A prison grid of cells. Dogs sniffing, baying, circling frantically inside them. I didn’t want to be there. Reluctantly, I followed my sister along the corridor between the cages, my heart racing, my senses scrambled by the fretful sounds echoing off the concrete walls and floor and by the sickly sweet stench of perfumed cleaning solvent, wet fur, and desperation.

  I bowed my head, barely restraining the impulse to put my hands over my ears. My thick auburn hair fell forward, hooding my face. Inside my zippered sweatshirt I was shivering, but my hands were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans.

  Coming to the shelter was a bad idea, I thought again, unable to focus on any one animal, seeing only motion, hearing above the din the anxious clacking of nails on concrete. Why had I let my mom talk me into going with Regan to, of all things, adopt a dog?

  Because Mom thought it would help. Make me feel better. Because I needed to think about something other than myself. Other than my dad, she meant. I needed to uncoil the knot of loss inside me, to unlock the dark cell I’d been living in since Dad died.

  Regan agreed. She couldn’t wait until I got “back to normal.” How could she not see that normal died the day our dad did? I mean, I know Regan suffered, too, but in most ways, she’s back to acting like her old self. When I’m feeling charitable toward her, I think it’s because she’s sixteen, and she got to love Dad three years longer than I did. When I’m feeling less generous, I think it’s because she’s too self-absorbed to care about anybody else.

  “A dog?” I’d sputtered, outraged. “You think getting a dog will help me ‘get over it’?”

  “That’s part of the reason,” Mom had conceded.

  Wrong. We both knew—all three of us knew—the bigger reason. It was about Regan. And Regan’s need to create perfection, in this case, a perfect essay that would get her into college. She’s only a junior, but she’s determined to have her early-decision application submitted in September, less than six months from now. Regan believed that an essay about training a shelter puppy to become a service dog would make her look better than other applicants. She’d already hooked up with a sponsor organization called Canine Connections. They’d actually approved Regan—us—as official volunteers.

  “We can train him together. It’ll be a sisters’ project!” she’d said brightly.

  Translation: “You can walk and feed and clean up after him. Most likely, you’ll end up with the training part, too.”

  This dumping of chores really isn’t mean-spirited. She was born that way. Whenever Regan takes on a project with another person, it’s usually the other one who does the heavy lifting. Regan inevitably has something more urgent to do, and she always promises to “make it up to you.” I fully believe she means it at that moment—only somehow, the “makeup time” never seems to arrive.

  When I pointed this out, Regan’s comeback was that this project was her doing me a favor. “You’ve been hiding out in your room for nearly six months,” was her justification. “This will force you out.”

  “I go out,” I’d countered.

  “To school. And then you’re back home, not answering your phone, hardly ever coming down to eat, not letting Jasmine or even Mercy into the house. You don’t talk to anyone.”

  I’m embarrassed, I’d wanted to say, but I was shocked to even think it. Like Regan would understand. Okay, I didn’t understand it myself, not really; the hot shame that surrounded my sorrow because Dad was dead, gone like a part of me, like a leg, leaving me lopsided, crippled.

  I didn’t cry.

  I wished I could grieve like a normal person, instead of feeling abandoned and—and guilty. With a fist, I rubbed the end of my nose. My eyes were close to tearing, but I knew it was from the cold, and not the unfathomable loss. Why do they keep these shelters so frigid?

  “Grace.” Regan’s voice rose over the chaos in the cages, echoing along the concrete hallway. “I think I found him! He’s soooo cute! He looks smart, too!”

  Obediently, I looked at the white fluffball dog Regan was pointing to. “He looks just like a Malti-poo!” she crowed. “That’s what Sheena has!”

  Sheena Weston, queen of the high school jungle, is Regan’s cohort in fabulousness.

  “No, no, no. Pick me!”

  I spun around. In the cage behind me, a dog sat posing as if for a portrait of canine good humor and fidelity. His shaggy gray muzzle seemed strained into something resembling a smile.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked Regan.

  “She didn’t,” the dog assured me, standing now, his tail wagging like a hairy propeller. “You’re the only one who can.”

  Right. Why not add hearing voices and talking dogs to the list of what’s wrong with me?

  “What?” Regan said distractedly. She was consulting a phone app for a list of “smartest dogs,” a leading criteria in her search.

  “I’m smarter than your average designer dog,” bragged the gray-and-brown mutt, glancing nervously at my sister, who was still some feet away. “The snowflake only looks sweet and adorable, but take it from me, she’s a real diva. You’ll be waiting on her before you know it! So hurry and pick me first, okay? You won’t be sorry, you’ll see. Oh, please, girl. Please, Stace—”

  “Grace,” I corrected him without thinking.

  “What?” Regan turned away from the petite, pure white ball of cuddliness to the ungainly, unkempt, prickly coated mutt with the lopsided grin. You could picture one jumping into your arms—the other knocking you over. One you’d carry in a designer bag. The other might eat one.

  I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly I heard myself say, “How about this one?” I swallowed hard. “I mean, he’s kind of cute.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Regan seriously.

  “You shouldn’t say that in front of him,” I whispered. “It might … I don’t know … hurt his fe
elings.”

  “No, no, no,” the dog said. “I’m used to it. I try, but what can I do? I’m not the best-looking dog on the cell block.” He chuckled. “She doesn’t know you can hear me. This is between us.”

  “It might hurt his feelings?” Regan asked, waiting for me to let her in on the joke.

  I searched Regan’s flawless face. Her dazzling blue eyes were like perfectly round twin swimming pools. My own eyes were hazel, as dappled green and brown as a Florida lagoon, my dad used to say.

  The dog was right. My sister hadn’t heard him say anything. Which meant that I was … crazy. Snap out of it, I lectured myself sternly. Dogs can bark and whimper and occasionally make yowling noises some people describe as singing, but they do not speak words—not in English or any other human language. Dogs don’t talk. Only crazy people think they do.

  I meant to turn away from the pleading pup, but instead I took a step closer and grabbed the plastic sleeve hooked to his cage. His name was Rex. Something kept me rooted to the spot. Something like trembling excitement.

  I looked up at Regan, who, unlike me, was tall and perfectly proportioned. Regal was her nickname at school. She was still staring at me, wondering if her little sister had toppled over the edge of sanity.

  I felt my pale, freckled face flush. I forced myself to smile as if I’d just been kidding. My smile was so rusty, I was surprised that it didn’t hurt. More surprised that I was pressing my case for the mutt.

  “I kinda like this one, Regan. Maybe he’s not Maltipoo cute,” I conceded, purposely pronouncing the breed as if it were a disease. “But look at his sturdy build and noble muzzle and intelligent eyes. He’s tall, so he’s definitely got some Lab in him, some shepherd, too. I bet there’s even a trace of poodle, and I definitely see Border collie; that’s the canine Einstein! Regan, we’ll get him trained in no time.”

  Totally made all that up.

  Regan scrunched her nose, then tilted her head, considering. Of the two of us, Regan might be the striverconniver, but I’m the smart one.

  “Excellent,” cheered the big, scraggly dog who may or may not have had any of those forebears. “Did you fill out the papers?” He was sitting again, looking up at my sister and preening as if he were trying to impress her. “They’re going to close soon and there are about a hundred forms to fill out before they’ll let a dog out of here,” he told me, while he tried out his lopsided grin on Regan. “You can’t even spring a hamster without filling out forms. And you’ve got to pay up, too. The dog your sister was hot for, he’s two hundred and fifty bucks. I’m your basic bargain on account of being not-that-cute, or—keep this between us—a little past my puppy years. Anyway, I’ll be a lot less.”

  Looking doubtful, Regan scrolled through her cell phone info. She frowned. “It does say Labs are usually chosen for their devotion to their masters. Yellow Labs and German shepherds are the seeing-eye guide dog of choice.”

  “And everyone knows poodles are brilliant—that’s why there are so many combinations, Labradoodles, Goldendoodles, Aussiedoodles.” I was laying it on kinda thick.

  “Well, okay, you’re probably right,” Regan said. “But how do we really know this guy is any of those mixes?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just look at him!” I practically sputtered.

  Or don’t, I thought, getting nervous.

  He was big. He was goofy looking. He was …

  “So not cute.” Regan pouted.

  “So what?” I said, feeling a tinge of … what? Betrayal? To a random dog? “It’s not like he’s staying. After we train him, you’re giving him away, right? Isn’t that the whole point?”

  And so it was a done deal. As we sprung Rex from the shelter, the weirdness of the moment hit me. My mom and sister thought my coming here would help me get back to normal. Instead, I heard a dog talk. I think that’s either irony or payback.

  2

  Moving In

  Back when the world was real, my mom would have sent Rex packing moments after he got home. Even though she’d signed the consent forms allowing us to adopt the dog by ourselves, Mom retained veto power. If our choice was unacceptable, he’d be gone. Obviously Rex didn’t know this, because he didn’t exactly put his best paw forward. In his delirium about being adopted, he hurtled into our house at warp speed, dragging me, his leash, and the bag of dog food I was carrying in his wake. Rex raced through the mudroom and, like a heat-seeking missile, honed in on the living room, which he explored frantically. That’s when the phrase “bull in a china shop” really came alive for me.

  I don’t think he meant to be destructive, but his hyper-passionate personality got the best of him, turning him into a weapon of canine mass destruction. Everything once stationary got swept in the air and crashlanded on the shiny new hardwood floor. That included every item on the coffee table, the fanned-out magazines, a mug of tea (which, wouldn’t you know it, was half full), a tangle of TV remotes. The glass bowl filled with tangerines, apples, and grapes wasn’t spared. Rex showed no remorse. He didn’t realize his ginormous tornado-tail had caused it all.

  “Rex, no!” I yelled, mentally totaling up the damage. “Regan, a little help here!” I was already on my hands and knees picking shattered glass up off the floor. My sister, big surprise, was oblivious, texting her friends about our new arrival.

  I caught a glimpse of Mom struggling to compose her face. The old Mom, an organizational wiz and neat freak, would have banished Rex on the spot. Mom 2.0, the one she turned into after Dad died, did not shout, scold, punish, or criticize. Which is probably some rule for dealing with grief-stricken teenagers she got from one of her bereavement books.

  She choked out, “Are you sure he’s … trainable? He’s awfully bulky. And … disruptive.”

  Words came out of my mouth without so much as a pause in my brain. “He’s not really like this. He’s probably nervous and excited. New home and all …” I trailed off.

  I didn’t stop to wonder why I was defending Rex, or even why I’d felt compelled to adopt him in the first place. Then again, thinking I heard him talk? Reason was not my strong suit right then.

  “Are you sure he’s clean? He looks—”

  “Like something a monkey dragged in?” Regan, finally off the phone, finished for her.

  “He’s totally housebroken,” I claimed, though I knew no such thing. I stole a glance at Rex, messily chomping on an apple.

  “Tell her I don’t shed … much.”

  I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. Tell her yourself, I wanted to say.

  “But isn’t he kind of … big? How much does he weigh?” Mom’s voice was quavery.

  I mumbled, “Maybe fifty pounds?” The adoption papers clearly had him twenty pounds more.

  “Has he had his shots?” Mom asked, raking her fingers through her tangle of honey-blond curls.

  “All his papers are in order,” I told her. At least that much was true.

  “And you picked this dog out … both of you?” Translation: Regan has better taste.

  My sister shrugged. “Grace insisted.”

  Rex must have sensed Mom’s distrust, and possible betrayal from Regan. He rose and trotted over to my mom. He sat at her feet and offered up his paw. Which is cute, especially when a dainty dog does it. Not so much Rex, whose oversize clumsy claw accidentally came down on her thigh and ripped a hole in her jeans.

  Here’s the part where Mom, even this new Zen-Mom, should have freaked. A grimace crossed her face, but amazingly, she held it together. Attempted to brush it off even. “Never liked how these jeans fit anyway.”

  She must have really been worried about me.

  THE GANG’S ALL HERE! is the cheery caption above the photo. The four of us, Mom, Dad, Regan, and I, look like sausages stuffed into shiny black wet suits. The photo was from two summers ago. We were posed beside a neon-orange rubber raft, about to ride the rapids on the Colorado River. I was squinting into the sun, looking doubtful. Regan was doing her best I-can-rock-a-wet-suit p
ose. Mom looked hopeful. Dad was beaming.

  WE ARE FAMILY! proclaims the next caption, angled jauntily over a shot of us in the actual raft. Regan and Mom were perched in the back, my dad and I up front. We all held paddles, but in true Abernathy family form, Dad and I did most of the work.

  Memories. Page after scrapbook page, picture after picture. Each one told a story. And each story ended with a stab in the pin cushion my heart had become. After bringing Rex home, I was doing exactly what Regan accused me of, shutting myself up in my room, not taking calls or texts, or doing homework. I was surrounding myself with proof that life wasn’t always this lonely. That I hadn’t always hurt this much.

  It didn’t make me feel better, but I don’t deserve to anyway.

  This had become a nightly ritual. Except tonight, of course, was different. I had a new cell mate in my self-imposed exile. The dog was inspecting everything, making loud sniffing noises, burying his snout and pawing through the piles of clothes, books, papers, crusted plates, and random leftovers that littered the floor. Regan called my room a toxic dump site, but the mess didn’t bother me. Nor Rex, apparently.

  “I’m so happy! I love this room! I love your bed! Can I come up here? Please. Please, please, please!” His front paws, a silty gray with surprisingly snowy-white tips, had already edged the bedspread. I’m guessing service-dogs-in-training shouldn’t be jumping on furniture, but this one didn’t know what he was in for yet. He took my non-answer as a yes.

  I flipped forward in the scrapbook until I found the pictures from last summer. We only ever took real vacations once a year, and unsurprisingly, Regan and I had lobbied for dramatically different destinations. My sister wanted New York City, because it’s sophisticated, the fashion center of the world, because her pal Sheena allegedly saw Sarah Jessica Parker in an organic foods emporium there—because they actually have organic foods emporiums there. New York, New York, the opposite of boring old Jupiter, Florida. Also because Regan’s ultimate dream is to be a fashion designer and her dream college, the Parsons School for Design, is there. My sister is nothing if not pragmatic.