A boy and his dog…and something else
Eleven-year-old Ben sits in the front seat of a canary yellow TVR Griffith, too nervous to daydream. Mother’s driving is fast and reckless, threatening to pitch them over the guardrail with every turn. It would be sort of fun if they weren’t Moving.
It took Ben forever to become a regular guy at his horribly snobbish school in the city. And now his carefully tended friendships are dissolving like sandcastles in the surf. He’s going to be the new guy — the Short Skinny Weird New Guy — at some cow town academy in upstate New York.
His only hope, which is really more of a delusion, is to get his mother to change her mind.
“Mom, why are we moving? I like it in the city.”
The car accelerates, and Ben swallows a yelp. Mother despises fear. “We’ve gone over this before. You can’t grow up in a cage of concrete and plastic. It’s unhealthy. You need to play outdoors.”
He doesn’t understand. She never cared about his health before. “I don’t get it. I played soccer all the time.”
“It’s not the same thing.” The car accelerates, and Ben prudently closes his mouth.
They are quiet for several miles. Ben looks at the trees with their long, heavy branches threatening to drop into the road. He doesn’t understand plant life. They’re alive, and yet not.
The car slows slightly, and Ben wonders if they’re getting close to their new house. Mother’s voice slashes through the engine’s purr. “Ben, I’ve made a decision.”
Bile burns the back of his mouth. Mother never decides anything good. “What decision?”
“Oh, don’t make that face. This is something you’re going to like.”
Ben bites his lip and waits. He knows he shouldn’t piss off Mother while she’s driving.
“I’m going to let you get a dog. It’s time. You can have a pet.”
Ben’s heart lurches with tentative joy. “Really? Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. We’ll stop by the shelter and pick one out.”
The dogs in the kennel bark and howl. They all have shiny, longing eyes. The weight of their collective gaze pins Ben to the floor. He wishes he could bring all of them home. He imagines running through a field with his own pack of loyal dogs, a younger, more feral version of Cesar Milan.
While Ben invites the dogs to sniff his hand, his mother taps her foot and does something on her phone. The quick, staccato movements of her fingers are like flashes of lightning. He knows he needs to decide quickly.
He scans the adoptable dogs. To his relief, his eyes keep coming back to the same one. He’s medium-sized with longish white fur, black splotches, an eye patch, and ears that stand at attention in a way that says, Hey, I’m up for anything.
He waves at the shelter volunteer, an older woman who regards him with a tired, skeptical frown. “Yeah?”
He points at what he now thinks of as his dog. “That one. With the black eye patch.”
The volunteer scowls. “That dog’s part border collie. He has a lot of energy.”
Ben shrugs. “So do I.”
It’s a hot August day. The air sticks to his skin. But Ben would still rather be outside, roaming the woods with his dog.
“Pirate! Come here!”
He hears the kinetic sounds of a hyperactive canine charging through the trees and grins. Pirate jumps on him, and licks the salt from his face.
“Down, boy. Now sit. Stay.”
So far, life upstate hasn’t been too bad. He’s spent most of time working with the dog trainer that Mother hired for Pirate, and exploring the woods by their new house. He supposes it’s really a mansion or a compound. But he’d much rather live in a house, so that’s what he calls it.
In two more weeks, he’ll go back to school. But, for now, he can ignore the dread accumulating behind his breastbone. He’s glad he’s lost his city pallor. A ruddy tan will help him blend in with what he’s come to think of as the country boys.
Pirate, still sort of sitting, wags his tail and butt faster and faster until the movement becomes a full-body wiggle. Ben laughs. Pirate is terrible at stay.
He picks up a stick and throws it into the woods, towards a new path that looks interesting. “Fetch, Pirate, fetch!”
The dog zooms into the distance, and Ben follows at a leisurely pace. When Pirate barks like he’s found something, he breaks into a curious run. Maybe Pirate is yipping at a raccoon or a fox. At the end of the trail, Ben freezes. Pirate is howling at a tall, straight-backed figure dressed like a hunter.
He pretends his heart isn’t fluttering like a caged bird. “Mom? What are you doing here?”
Mother’s face is both smiling and solemn. Kind and cruel. “You’re my son. There’s a lot you need to learn about who you really are. We’re going to start today.”
Mother holds out a dog biscuit and Pirate sniffs the air. After a moment of deliberation, the dog decides it’s safe to eat. As he bounds to her, Ben knows something is wrong. He’s about to open his mouth, to call a warning, when Pirate collapses into a black and white furry mound.
Ben runs to his dog, now motionless and breathless. He strokes his silky fur, and touches his still-warm nose.
“What did you do?” His voice is laced with eleven years of secret sorrow.
“Bring him back.” Mother’s face is stern and implacable.
Ben feels a twinge of aching hope. He reaches into himself, where the monsters used to grow, and plumbs the depths. There must be something I can use. But all he finds is a flickering image of a pale-haired man with kind, wary eyes. An army of tears streams down his cheeks.
“I’m not just your son. What happened to my father?”
Mother shakes her head imperceptibly. For a moment, her eyes are full of longing, like the dogs he left at the shelter.
“It doesn’t matter, son. Try again.”
It is twilight, the hour of neither here nor there. Depleted and despairing, Ben falls beside his lifeless dog. He closes his eyes and wishes he were far away.
When a warm, wet tongue licks away his tears, he doesn’t know if the miracle was his will or Mother’s pity.
Meet Ben at four years old
…eight years old
…and sixteen years old.
