June 16
For a whole week now, Barry and I have had fun with high-energy Strider. We began by walking him. “Heel,” I ordered to see if he would obey. He did, but he nipped our heels to make us go faster. We began to jog. He nipped again, so we began to run. We ran along Ocean View Boulevard where the pinky-purple flowers that cover the ground are so bright they almost hurt our eyes. Below, little waves nibbled at the rocks. Strider gained on us until his leash was almost pulling my arm out of its socket.
Finally we stopped to pant beside a faucet where people wash sand off their feet. “Maybe Strider’s pretending we’re a herd of cattle,” said Barry when he could talk again. Strider caught a drink of water by turning his head sideways under the faucet.
Mr. President came driving his bread truck down the boulevard. He drew up beside us and called out, “So you saved the dog from the vile blows and buffets of the world, to say nothing of the animal control officer.”
“We have joint custody!” I called back.
“May fortune smile on your agreement!” Mr. President called out and then drove on.
“I guess that’s a fancy way of saying ‘If you can work it out.’” Barry sounded cross.
When we returned to our shack, Mrs. Smerling was sitting on her front steps drinking a beer out of an aluminum can. Barry, who quickly took Strider’s leash, was full of advice: “If you ask (pant) if you can keep a dog (pant), she’ll say no. (Pant pant.) It’s easy to say no. (Pant.) Act as if (pant) you’re sure a dog (pant) is okay with her (pant pant) in case she asks questions.”
I said, “Hi, Mrs. Smerling (pant pant),” as we approached her. Strider lifted his leg to mark his territory. Barry took hold of Strider’s collar as if our dog were his, one hundred percent. This was the smart thing to do, but somehow it made me uncomfortable.
Mrs. Smerling took a swig from the can before she said, “Hello there, Leigh. I see you have a couple of friends.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Smerling,” I said as we walked past her.
It is hard to tell when our landlady is being nice. At least she isn’t fussy about Strider lifting his leg on her shrubbery because she never prunes or waters it. However, on the first of the month, at 8 A.M. sharp, she comes down the path in her bathrobe with her thong sandals flapping and calls out, “Mrs. Botts! Mrs. Botts!” As soon as Mom opens the door, she says, “Your rent is due,” as if she suspects we can’t pay it. Mom dreads the first of the month because the old—oops!—Mrs. Smerling might raise our rent, which is already high.
Inside, Barry and I flopped down on the couch. We were hot and sweaty, but we felt great. A running dog is a great dog to own. I mean half-own.
Strider went to his water dish and slurped. Then he rolled over on his back, which meant he trusted us. We both scratched his belly. Being trusted by a dog, especially a dog that has good reason for not trusting humans, is a nice feeling.
June 22
Time goes fast these days. Barry and I begin each morning by running with Strider. On the mornings I mop for Katy, Barry holds Strider’s leash and waits for me. Katy says we have an interesting custody arrangement if we can make it work, and she gives us samples of whatever she is preparing for a party. Strider enjoys chicken livers wrapped in bacon.
One day after our run, when I was reading and Barry was pretending to order expensive camping gear from catalogs, he ran across something called a “dog posture dish.” The catalog explained the importance of a dog’s skeletal alignment and showed a picture of a dog standing up eating from dishes set on a platform so the dog didn’t have to bend down.
Barry and I thought this was funny. “Strider, old boy, how’s your skeletal alignment?” I asked. Strider, who has a straight, strong back, looked interested.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” said Barry. “Let’s go up to my place and build him a posture dish out of Dad’s scrap lumber.” We fastened Strider’s leash to his collar and raced up the hill, where we sawed and hammered until we produced a workable stand for Strider’s dishes. I lugged it down the hill, and now Strider seems pleased to eat standing up with his spine aligned.
Another day when I was reading and Barry was studying his catalogs, Strider, looking bored, wandered around the shack.
“Too bad he can’t read, too,” Barry remarked.
“Great idea,” I said. “Let’s teach him.”
Barry was doubtful, but I reasoned that if Strider could read words he didn’t like to hear, he might not get so upset when we told him to sit or stay. I printed SIT on one piece of paper and STAY on another, and we went to work. We held up SIT and pushed down on Strider’s hindquarters to make him sit. It took a while, but he finally caught on. STAY was harder. Barry held up the card. I went into the kitchen. Strider followed because that is where I feed him. I led him back. We went through the whole thing again until finally, after a couple of days, Strider caught on or gave in, I’m not sure which. Now I carry two pieces of paper with the magic words in my hip pocket whenever I take Strider out. They might come in handy.
Mom thinks teaching a dog to read is funny. Maybe it is, but Barry and I had a lot of fun doing it. Maybe someday I could run a school for teaching dogs to read. (Joke.) Too bad Boyd Henshaw didn’t think of this when he wrote Ways to Amuse a Dog, which used to be my favorite book.
June 30
Tomorrow Barry has to fly down to what he calls Los Smogland with two of his little sisters to visit their real mother and stepfather. He will be gone for a month, so I was invited over for a farewell dinner.
Mr. Brinkerhoff, who works in heavy construction—highways and stuff like that—came home and said, “Glad to see you, Leigh. With so many women around, us men have to stick together.” That made me feel good. He also invited Strider into the house, which made me, but not the girls’ cats, feel even better. I showed the little sisters how Strider could read. They were impressed by his intelligence and printed ROLL OVER on a paper, but he ignored them. The oldest girl said he had a reading problem.
The part of the Brinkerhoff house I like best is the spaghetti wall. To see if the spaghetti is cooked enough, the family take turns throwing a strand at a wall in the kitchen. If the spaghetti sticks, it is done; if it slides to the floor, it needs to cook longer. When enough spaghetti has stuck to the wall, they spray-paint over it and start again. The wall reminds me of modern art I have seen in books at the library.
The Brinkerhoffs invited me to take a turn. My strand stuck! I know it is silly, but having my spaghetti stick to the wall made me feel good, as if I had accomplished something really important. Maybe that’s what my future should be—throwing spaghetti for one of those plants that freezes Italian dinners for supermarkets.
We all sat down at the big round table to a meal of spaghetti and meatballs and a huge bowl of green salad full of avocado, cheese, and bits of salami. The littlest girl sat in a high chair and ate with her fingers and smeared tomato sauce all over her face and in her hair. Things like that don’t bother Mrs. Brinkerhoff. Sometimes I wish Mom were more like Mrs. Brinkerhoff. Not all the time, just once in a while.
The girls told stupid riddles and screamed with laughter while Barry and I exchanged looks that said we were too grown-up for such childish jokes. Mr. Brinkerhoff gave Strider a meatball which he gulped down. I slipped him another. Mom doesn’t allow me to feed Strider at the table when she’s home.
I was sorry when it was time to leave. “So long, Barry,” I said as I snapped Strider’s leash in place. We were outside, standing by the fence. “Have fun down there in Los Smogland.”
“Yeah.” Barry sounded gloomy. “So long, and good luck in hiding Strider from Mrs. Smerling.” He stroked Strider’s ears as if he didn’t want to part with him.
I thought, Strider is in my custody for a whole month. Not joint custody. My custody.
July 8
Strider has been mine for a whole week! I brush him, wrestle with him, and we run a lot to avoid Mrs. Smerling. I always wave to Mr. President when I see him, and think of the day Barry and I found an abandoned dog. We run a little farther each day. Now we go around the Point, where I can take Strider off his leash and where we can hear sea lions bark. Strider, who rarely barks, enjoys barking at sea lions.
On foggy mornings we have to time our run around the Point to avoid the blast of the foghorn. Once it caught us and nearly blew us off the road. I could actually feel the sound waves. Strider took off at top speed. I thought he was gone for good, but I finally found him behind a rock. He must remember because he always speeds up as we pass the foghorn, even if the sun is shining.
One day, when we were cooling down along the beach, I found a perfectly good golf ball. When I poked around the kelp that had washed up, I found another. After that I picked up a golf ball or two every day, washed them, packed them in egg cartons, and sold them at one of the pro shops. I thought I had a second source of income.
Then Strider caught on and began to hunt for golf balls with me. He even jumped into a water hazard on the P.G. golf course to retrieve them. When he found one, he carried it in his mouth and dropped it at my feet. Then he looked up at me and waggled, not just his tail stub, but all over, he was so eager for praise. I hugged him, and he licked my face with his slippery tongue.
Then something funny (to me) happened. We were running past a rich people’s golf course when Strider spotted a golf ball on the fairway. He shot off, grabbed the ball, and dropped it at my feet. Four golfers riding on two carts began to shout and wave their clubs at us. Then they began to pursue us on their carts. I threw the ball back onto the fairway and fled with Strider.
When we were safe, I stopped and laughed because the whole thing was so much like a comedy on TV. Strider always looks pleased when I laugh. Sometimes I think Strider, not Barry, is my best friend. I’ll be glad to see Barry again, but I’ll be sorry—oh well, I can’t have everything. Half a dog is better than none, as the saying goes.
Strider has a new habit. Whenever we stop, he places his paw on my foot. It isn’t an accident because he always does it. I like to think he doesn’t want to leave me.
July 9
Today when I took Strider out, the fog was beginning to lift. The sun felt so good I sat on a bench at the Point to enjoy it. Strider lay with his nose on my foot. The morning was so peaceful I sat with my eyes closed, listening to the skree of gulls, waves whispering around rocks, bees humming on flowers, and crunching of joggers’ feet on the path. I am not sure what I thought about—Mom studying hard, Dad off in his rig someplace with a load of turnips, Barry cooped up in an apartment in Los Smogland? I really don’t know.
When Strider woke up, we ran some more. I saw Mr. President picking up trash, but Strider never wants to stop at that part of the beach. We ran past the high school where I will go in September. The playing field looks like a good place to run, but a sign says, “Dogs not allowed on infield or track.”
That’s the way our days have gone, with a few detours to the laundromat and the library. So far, Strider and I have avoided Mrs. Smerling.
July 10
I spoke too soon. Today when Strider and I came running home, Mrs. Smerling, wearing an old bathrobe, stepped out of her back door with a broom in her hand. Funny, she doesn’t sweep the steps that often. Was she spying? We had to stop. Mrs. Smerling watched Strider mark his territory, which he has done so often he probably thinks he owns the place.
“Whose dog is that, anyway?” she asked. When I explained about joint custody, she said, “I see,” as if she didn’t.
I added, “Barry is visiting his real mother this month because she has joint custody. Of him, I mean.”
Mrs. Smerling looked confused.
“He’s a good dog,” I said. “He’s not really a barker. That’s because he’s part Australian dingo, a breed that doesn’t often bark. Sometimes his shepherd blood barks, but not much.” I felt silly. Blood doesn’t bark, as a teacher would say. Dogs bark.
Strider sat down, paw on my foot, ears up, and acted the part of a good dog while I stood there trying to look responsible and wondering if a barking watchdog approach might have been better. “I keep him outdoors as much as possible,” was all I could think to say.
“So I notice.” Mrs. Smerling went on sweeping her back steps.
So she’s been watching us all the time, but where do we stand? It might help if Strider chased off a burglar or did something brave.
July 13
Today the mailman brought a postcard from Barry with a picture of Disneyland and a note that said, “There’s nothing much to do down here but watch TV and keep my sisters from falling into the swimming pool. How’s Strider? Does he miss me?”
I wondered. Maybe Strider has forgotten Barry.
July 18
Something happened today! Dad turned up, live and in person. Strider and I had come home from an early afternoon run, and there he was, sitting in his tractor, waiting. When he saw me, he climbed down from his cab and hugged me. His stomach isn’t as hard as it used to be. Bandit was watching. I noticed that although Dad had a dusty look, and so did his tractor, which he used to keep shining, Bandit was wearing a clean red bandana around his neck. Dad has always been good about that.
Dad looked me over. “You’re shooting—” he began, and changed to, “You’re growing like a weed.” He didn’t say “shooting up” because that sounds like drugs. Maybe he worries about drugs like Mom does.
Then he said, “But you’re going to have to put on muscle if you expect to play football.”
I don’t expect to play football. I don’t even want to play football, even if he was a big high school football star.
I must have frowned because he looked at Strider and said, “Who’s this?”
When I explained, he let Bandit out of the cab. My ex-dog looked older and fatter. Strider’s hair stood up. The two dogs weren’t exactly friendly, but they didn’t growl, either. After sniffing around, ears up, tail wagging, Bandit marked a bush or two, Dad snapped his fingers, Bandit jumped into the cab, and that was that. I doubt if he remembered me. Maybe Strider has forgotten Barry.
Dad and I, with Strider nipping along, went into our shack. We had trouble talking, so we sat staring at a stupid game show until Mom came in. I was embarrassed because Mom caught us watching a man and a woman jumping up and down, screaming, and hugging the master of ceremonies because they had won a dishwasher and a set of luggage. I snapped off the TV.
Dad got up and kissed Mom, a just-friends kiss, not a madly-in-love kiss. At least they get along without fighting. Barry’s dad and real mom quarrel over the telephone, which makes Barry unhappy.
Dad said, “I was in this area, so I thought I would drop off the support check in person.”
“Thanks, Bill.” Mom took the check, but she didn’t tell him she deposits as much as she can in the bank for my college education. Support stops when I am eighteen.
“How about me taking you two out to eat?” Dad asked. We went out for a late lunch before Mom had to leave for the hospital. Dad and I had burritos and Mom had a taco salad.
We looked like a real family, so I pretended we were. Then I began to worry. There are no crops in P.G., unless you count tourists. How come Dad didn’t have a load? A trucker without a load is losing money. I didn’t ask questions because I didn’t want to spoil being a family.
Afterward, as Dad drove off, I couldn’t help thinking that a tractor that isn’t pulling a load is like a lizard that has lost its tail. It can go fast, but there should be more to it.
July 20
Today Mom said I had to take our washing to the laundromat, which usually makes me mad, but this time I was still feeling good from Dad’s visit, so I didn’t complain. When I got there, I hitched Strider to a light post and held up the STAY sign. Then I loaded the washer by the window so he wouldn’t feel abandoned and worked as fast as I could before any kids from school came along and saw me.
After that I went next door to the thrift shop to look for a thin paperback to stuff in my back pocket so I would have something to read whenever Strider and I stopped to rest. I was paying for The Human Comedy, by William Saroyan, when I saw a shirt hanging on a rack of clothes. It was a brand-new shirt my size, a shirt with imagination, a shirt that shouted, “Buy me! Take me out of here!” I really liked that shirt, but I felt I wasn’t the type. If I wore such a wild shirt, everyone would laugh.
Back in the laundromat, I moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer as fast as I could. Outside, I sat on the curb with my feet in the gutter, opened The Human Comedy, and began to read about a boy in Fresno.
Wouldn’t you know? A girl with long wavy red hair came along on her bike. I had seen her—Jessica or Jennifer or something that begins with a J—around school because nobody can miss a girl with hair like that. She stopped in front of me and said, “Leigh Botts, what are you doing there with your feet in the gutter?”
“Reading.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“That’s what I thought,” she said and pedaled away with her long hair flying.
I sat there feeling silly for a minute. Then suddenly I felt great. Dad had come to see us, I had grown, and a girl knew my name. I felt so great I went into the thrift shop and bought that shirt.
“Wear it in good health!” the thrift shop lady called after me.
At home I put on the shirt and looked in the bathroom mirror, the only mirror we have. The shirt looked as good as I thought it would. The left side is blue with pink dots, and the left sleeve is pink with blue dots. The right side is purple with blue crosswise stripes, and the right sleeve is blue with pink dots. I twisted around so I could see the back. One half is purple and blue crosswise stripes, and the other is green and blue up-and-down stripes. The collar and cuffs are plain purple. The best part is I chose it myself and paid for it with money I had earned. I felt as good as my shirt looked.
I heard Mom come in, so I burst out of the bathroom. “Ta-da! Like it?” I asked. “I bought it for school.”
“Well—it will take a little getting used to, but I’m glad you have the courage to wear it.” Mom looked so pleased I was surprised.
Then I got to thinking. Mom looked that way because I never would have worn such a shirt when I was a new kid in school moping around, being miserable about the divorce, and trying to look inconspicuous.
I hung my shirt in my closet to keep it new for school, put on an old T-shirt, and took Strider for a run. My feet felt so light they skimmed the path by the bay. A great shirt and a girl who knew my name. On a scale of one to ten, I would rate this a ten day.
July 30
Yesterday Mr. Brinkerhoff invited Strider and me to go to the airport to meet Barry’s plane. We had to wait outside because dogs are not allowed in airports. When the plane landed and Barry saw his father, he let go of his sisters’ hands and threw his arms around Mr. Brinkerhoff as if he never wanted to let go. His father hugged him just as hard. When they parted and looked at each other, Barry had tears in his eyes but managed to say, “Dad, it sure is good to be back.”
I had tears in my eyes, too, because my dad and I hug, but not like that.
Barry grinned and said, “Hi, Leigh.” Then, to hide his feelings he said, “Hello there, Strider, old boy. How’s our dog?”
Strider wagged his piece of tail and sat down with his chin up and ears back, which meant he wanted to be petted.
I tensed up, waiting to see if Strider would place his paw on Barry’s foot. He kept all four feet on the sidewalk.
Whew!
August 10
Now that Barry has returned, summer is going fast. Barry puffs when we run with Strider. After being exercised by my, I mean our, dog for the past month, I don’t puff at all.
When I showed Barry my shirt, he fell over on the couch laughing and said, “You mean you’re going to wear that to school?”
“Sure,” I said. “You’re just jealous.”
“Me, jealous? Of that?” Barry laughed some more. I started to pound him, and we scuffled. This made Strider so anxious we stopped. We weren’t sure which of us he would defend, but I was pretty sure it was me. I mean I.
I wish I could forget Barry’s saying, “Me, jealous?”