What the Dog Said Read online

  Her name was actually LuLu. She would be our instructor. “Welcome to Canine Connections’s Teen class, or what we refer to as Kids4Kids. As young people yourselves, you’ll be training assistance dogs specifically meant for disabled children and young adults. Our goal is to help these kids—our recipients—gain greater independence and increase their quality of life.”

  “My dog will go to live with a child in a wheelchair?”

  The girl who’d asked the question was around Regan’s age with long black hair. She stroked the beautiful dark brown dog at her feet.

  “Mainly,” LuLu acknowledged, “but we train dogs for recipients with varied physical and mental disabilities, including muscular dystrophy, multiple sclerosis, cerebral palsy, spinal cord injuries, blindness and hearing impairments, and autism. Once we had a child who had to sleep with a respirator. Her parents were always worried the respirator might stop and they wouldn’t hear it. We trained a dog to wake her parents if that ever happened.”

  “Did it?” asked a girl holding the leash of a yellow Labrador retriever.

  LuLu nodded. “That dog saved the child’s life. By the end of this training program, the dogs you’re fostering may one day do the same for others in need.”

  I stole a glance at Rex. Did he know he was only being fostered? That living with us wasn’t permanent? Rex chose that moment to list toward me and rest his snout on my lap. My thigh muscle tightened involuntarily.

  “The one thing all the people we help have in common,” LuLu told us, “is a drive to become more independent—and all of you who’ve come here today are already part of that, by giving your dogs a loving, secure environment, socializing them, and teaching them basic skills like ‘sit,’ ‘come,’ ‘stay,’ and ‘heel.’”

  My family had done none of those things.

  Translation: Regan fudged Rex’s application! I bet she’d said we’d had the dog for months, had properly trained him, arranged playdates, and made sure he spent time around other people.

  “Now it’s your turn,” said LuLu warmly. “Please introduce yourselves and tell us why the four-legged friend you’ve brought will make a great service dog.”

  I flinched, and prayed to go last. Luckily, LuLu nodded at the girl with the long black hair sitting farthest from me.

  “I’m Megan, and this is Romeo—he’s a chocolate Labrador retriever.” She ran her hand along his gleaming coat proudly and the dog responded by sitting upright and posing royally. “Romeo is more than a dog—he’s an old soul and I think he was put on this earth to help others.”

  Was he put on earth to bring world peace, too? I wondered snarkily.

  Sitting next to Romeo, the vanilla to his chocolate, was Daffodil, a pale yellow Lab who was two years old, and impeccably groomed. Her human companion was Maria. She and her mom had been fostering service dogs for years. “Once you meet the child your dog is going to, you’re never the same,” she said with a heavy Spanish accent. “You wonder why everyone doesn’t do this. It’s such a kindness.”

  Next up sat—or rather slouched—Lissa, whose jutting chin and folded arms made her look defiant and defensive. I wondered what her saga was.

  “I have to be here, for community service.” She practically spit out the word “community.” “Otherwise, I go back to juvie. Which sucks worse than this.”

  LuLu didn’t seem surprised. “And your dog?” she prompted.

  Lissa’s dog, a sable, black, and tan German shepherd, was sitting with his backside on her feet, until she kicked him off. “He belongs to Family Services. His name is Chainsaw.”

  How fitting.

  “Do you know why the dog is sitting on your feet?” LuLu asked the girl.

  “He’s always up in my space,” she complained.

  “He’s protecting you,” LuLu explained. “You give off a vibe that something’s wrong. The dog’s instinct is to protect you. That’s how he shows it.”

  Lissa scowled. “I don’t need protection.”

  In direct contrast to insolent Lissa was the preppy-looking guy next to me, dressed in pressed khakis and a red Hilfiger shirt tucked into his belt. “Hello,” he said smoothly. “I’m Trey, and this is Clark Kent—he comes from a long line of champions. Tiny but mighty!”

  The dog looked like a multicolored Snausage, long and low to the ground. He had the shortest legs this side of a dachshund—and weirdly? No tail.

  “He’s a purebred blue merle Pembroke Welsh corgi,” Trey bragged, though clearly that meant nothing to anyone in the room. “Nothing stops this guy. Clark Kent’s going to make a super”—he paused so we could get the lame joke—“companion for the disabled.”

  I suddenly got it. Trey, who looked to be around seventeen, was probably doing the same thing as Regan: using the dog as a cause-related résumé-booster.

  LuLu gave Trey a tight smile, and turned expectantly to me. I lifted my eyebrows and cleared my throat. “Um, I’m Grace, and this is Rex.” Rex raised his head and managed to get one ear to stand at attention. “I’m not sure what exact breed he is …” I trailed off. If the trainer was going to notice that Rex didn’t exactly fit in with this exemplary lineup, now would be the moment to mention it.

  “Is Rex a shelter dog?” LuLu came forward and knelt in front of Rex, inspecting him.

  I nodded, almost hopeful. Could that eliminate him from the program?

  “That’s so wonderful!” declared LuLu, scratching a spot on Rex’s head. “You rescued a dog, who’ll now go on to improve someone else’s life. That’s what we call win-win.”

  So. Not. Getting. Kicked. Out.

  “And why do you think Rex is ready to be trained as a service dog?” LuLu inquired.

  Because my sister thinks it’ll look good on her résumé, blared the thought bubble over my head.

  “Tell her you’re not sure yet,” Rex advised me.

  I blinked and stared at him. He’d tilted his head and looked at me expectantly. For a split second I imagined everyone had heard him. But no, all eyes in the room were on me.

  “I … I’m not sure … yet,” I stammered.

  “That’s an honest answer.” LuLu laughed.

  If dogs could crow, that’s how I’d describe Rex’s bewhiskered, beaming face.

  “In fact, you all have great, admirable reasons—and on behalf of everyone at Canine Connections, we thank you for being here. But …” She paused, affecting a serious look. “I have to be honest. We’ll work hard and do our best, but it’s possible not all of your dogs will make it. They’ll need to pass the Public Access Test to become certified.”

  I scanned the line of dogs and caught myself thinking: Okay, so they’re all purebreds, alert, dignified, and bright. But can they talk?

  LuLu consulted her chart and furrowed her brow. “I think we’re missing someone. Does anyone know where Otis is? He’s a standard poodle, who’s also signed up for this class. He’s being fostered by a … Mr… .” She paused. “I can’t make out the last name. It looks like Deco?”

  No one seemed to know anything about the missing Otis or his owner.

  LuLu got the class started. “Each week, we’re going to work on a skill. Your dogs will learn to open and close doors, flick light switches, push elevator buttons, retrieve anything you ask—including his own leash and the remote control—shop for groceries, pay the cashier, even help a person in a wheelchair pop a curb.”

  A chorus of “No way” and “Really? How?” greeted LuLu’s assertation.

  I eyed Rex. Bet he aces this baby. I had no real reason to think so, but I did, strongly.

  “We’ll start with basics. Please choose a workstation, bring it to the center of the room, and let’s teach your dog to jump up on it and ‘stay’ on command.” By workstation, she was referring to three-foot square blocks of wood, the kind you see dogs posing on at dog shows.

  “Keep your dogs on leashes at all times during training,” LuLu advised—just as Trey was unhooking Clark Kent, who made a beeline for Daffodil, the
yellow Lab. For her part, she seemed more interested in Romeo, the chocolate Lab, and proceeded to sniff his hind quarters. Romeo rolled over, submissive.

  Cries of “Romeo—no!” and “Daffodil, come!” and “Clark Kent, stop that!” echoed through the cavernous space. Meanwhile, Rex and I dutifully followed directions. I chose the least scratched-up block and dragged it into the center of the room. Rex raised his head, looking at me as if waiting for a command. “Up, Rex!” I said, patting the block, feeling confident.

  The dog didn’t move a muscle.

  “Rex, you’re supposed to jump up here.” I indicated the top of the block again. Stubbornly, Rex remained sitting by my feet. Three more times I showed him what to do; three more times he pretended not to understand.

  By now, all the other dogs were atop their blocks—although it’d taken dwarf-legged Clark Kent several tries. At the risk of looking lame and feeling really stupid—I didn’t want to be the only one whose dog wouldn’t follow the first, simplest command—I stooped to his level. That is, I bent down to talk to him. I felt ridiculous whispering, “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you jumping up?”

  “What’s in it for me?” he whispered back.

  Before I got a chance to react, LuLu came to the rescue.

  “We don’t always reward our dogs with snacks,” she said, handing out Baggies filled with Pup-Peroni training bits. “But since this is the first time, we’re going to give them treats for following instructions.”

  Rex grinned. I gave him the stink-eye.

  The rest of the class flew by. We worked on eye contact with our dogs, and the command “stay.” We walked several feet away, and then instructed the dogs to “come.”

  Once he was sure a treat was on the other end, Rex was a model student. Which I couldn’t say for Romeo, who spent most of the time on his back, and Clark Kent, who, once up, refused to leave his block.

  Just before the end of class, LuLu gave us each a zippered nylon pouch.

  “Goodie bags!” raved Rex, his tail wagging like a windshield wiper on high speed. “I hope there are chicken strips! Or rawhide chews!”

  “Inside are the vests we call capes,” LuLu explained. “Whenever your dog is on a leash—indoors or out—they must wear it. I’ll demonstrate how to put them on.” She motioned at Rex. “Would you like to be my helper?”

  Obediently, Rex trotted forward.

  The capes were bright green and fit like a harness across his chest and back, over his flanks, and fastened underneath. On top, the warning DON’T PET! stood out in black lettering. On each side, reflective strips were affixed to pockets, like doggy-sized saddlebags, with SERVICE DOG IN TRAINING clearly visible.

  I looked at the cape. I looked at Rex. This wasn’t going to be attractive. Then I thought of my fashionista sister, with visions of a snowy white fluffball accessorized like a sparkling Barbie-dog. We were stuck with a cape-clad doofus-dog instead. The urge to laugh hit me—so strange that I nearly choked.

  And then my heart stopped.

  The door flew open, and a boy in shabby lowriders and a hoodie that obscured his face blasted into the room—incongruously dragging a large snow-white poodle. He headed for LuLu. “Sorry, man, I know I’m late. My ride never showed.”

  A cold gust of wind blew across my heart. The voice was unmistakable. It belonged to someone I’d sworn never to set eyes on again.

  5

  At Risk

  “What was that about?” Rex demanded, screeching to a stop on the sidewalk. He was miffed that I’d abruptly yanked him out of class. “I was going to be her helper. Helpers get snacks.”

  “We’re going home,” I snapped.

  “How?” Rex asked, looking around. “I don’t see a ride.”

  “We’ll walk,” I said, so rattled that I no longer cared about being insane for hearing him—let alone answering. I stomped off.

  Stubbornly, Rex stayed put. No amount of tugging the leash could move him. I dropped it on the ground and kept walking.

  “Please, Tracey, tell me about it,” Rex begged, reluctantly trotting after me, dragging his leash along the sidewalk. “I’m an excellent listener.”

  “How’s that possible when you’re always talking?” I retorted, then immediately felt a stab of guilt. Same as I’d had in the kennel, when Regan said, right in front of him, that he wasn’t cute. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Maybe that’s why I continued to talk to him.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but that subhuman with the poodle who just blew into class? He belongs behind bars.”

  “Is this about your dad?”

  “What? What did you say?” Stunned, I whipped around and shot daggers at Rex. How could the dog know? I mean, he obviously can’t really be talking … so how is it I heard him make a connection between that gang-hanger-on and my dad?

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I said, storming off again.

  Two kids on skateboards stopped short to stare. One twirled his forefinger by his ear, the universal sign for “nutso.”

  Rex ignored them and turned back to me. “Hey, a dog learns things, living with someone. Wanna talk about it?”

  “No! I do not want to talk about it.” I kept walking.

  We’d gotten only a few blocks from Canine Connections when Regan pulled up. Noting the fury on my face and the force I used slamming the door, Einstein guessed, “Bad session?”

  “Why don’t you tell her?” I directed my question at the four-legged backseat blabbermouth.

  Regan arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow and emitted a low whistle. “Okaaay, I guess I got my answer.”

  “You didn’t even get the question,” I snapped. “I’ll break it down: I’m not going back there. So if you want a certified service dog, you better clear your oh-so-busy schedule.”

  “Okay,” she said lightly as she hit the gas and made a sharp left turn into a busy intersection. In other circumstances, I would have screamed, adding my terrified indignation to the screeching tires, blaring of horns, and swear words being thrown at her.

  Instead, I spent the rest of the drive staring out the side window, trying not to think.

  Shockingly, Regan did take Rex to his next class.

  Predictably, she ended up in my room right afterward.

  I knew exactly why.

  I turned the volume up on my iPod. Bruce Springsteen, the Boss, as Dad called him, was rasping out “Born to Run.” Blithely, Regan arranged her long limbs on the end of my bed and pinned me with her baby-blue anime eyes. “They asked for you at Canine Connections,” she began. “They really like you—they say you’re a natural with the dogs.”

  Flattery? Really? Surely she can do better than that. I started to sing really loudly, “Tramps like us! Baby we were born to run! Uh-oh-oh! Oh-oh-oh-oh, ooo … !”

  Regan tried again: “I totally get why you don’t want to go back.”

  I muted Bruce.

  “It’s a hard class,” she whined. “They don’t let you text or take any breaks. And the smell in that room—pee-yeew!”

  I turned the volume back up. The Boss had ceded to Bon Jovi and I sang out, “Oh! Oh! We’re halfway there. Oh! Oh! Livin’ on a prayer …”

  “It’s because of that boy, isn’t it? He’s the reason you don’t want to go back.”

  My jaw dropped and I killed the music. It took her only three tries?

  But then she blew it. “He’s so obnoxious! And his little dog with those gross stunted legs kept nipping at my ankles.”

  I started to say “the other boy, you moron,” but something got caught in my throat and I ended up making a cackling noise. It didn’t matter. If Regan didn’t know—and why would she, denier that she is?—there wasn’t anything I could do to change her.

  She wasn’t the one who begged Mom to let her go with her to Dad’s precinct, who sat behind the one-way mirrored glass when the police questioned suspects. On November 22 of last year, Police Detective Gregory Abernathy—my dad—was leaving
work when someone shot him from a speeding car. There were no eyewitnesses. The surveillance camera caught part of a license plate, and a grainy picture of the back of four heads in that car.

  Experts determined that whoever shot my dad had been sitting in the front seat—most likely the driver—and was most definitely right-handed. They found the car’s owner, nineteen-year-old Hector Lowe. He was no stranger to the police. A suspected gang member, Hector had a rap sheet a mile long. They brought him and his thug buddies in for questioning. They all claimed to know nothing about a shooting.

  Liars.

  At that point, the police didn’t know if the shooting was a random drive-by, or the handiwork of someone who knew my dad, possibly even one of the at-risk kids he worked with. These were foster kids, neglected kids, abused kids, the kind I should feel sorry for but am mainly scared of—the kids who are bound for juvie, the Palm Beach County Juvenile Correctional Facility.

  Mom didn’t want me there. The police really didn’t want me there. I talked my way in by saying I might recognize one of them, from school or something. But that wasn’t my real reason for insisting on witnessing the questioning.

  I thought I would know, just by their faces, their voices, their body language, and more than anything, their eyes—which one of these monsters had cut down a truly good man, a giving and funny and caring teddy bear of a man. I was his daughter, the one who thought his lame jokes were funny, who played catch with him, who got into raptor-rock like Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi because of him, the one whose softball team he coached. The one whose fault it was that he left work early that day and stepped into the line of fire.

  I should have been able to pinpoint the perp.

  But I didn’t know. All I remember is a revolving door of sullen faces, belligerent denials, feigned ignorance. My dad had tried to improve their lives. Any one of them could have ended his.

  Even Joey Pico—JJ to his posse. Even though he proved to be left-handed, he was the only one who admitted to being in the car that day.