Strays Read online

  Roman sat and scratched his ear with his one back leg. So weird looking.

  “Roman was born on the streets and was picked up by an illegal dog-fighting ring.”

  “What’s that?” asked Talbot, adjusting the small silver stud in her nose.

  “The dogs fight each other, and people bet on it. My uncle used to do it with roosters,” said Oak. He tugged both cords around his hood, and the fabric tightened against his face. I made it my mission to see his forehead before the summer was over.

  “That’s so mean,” said Talbot, hugging her dog.

  Kevin continued, “Essentially, people pay to see dogs tear each other apart. More often than not, both dogs wind up badly injured. Many die. And then there’s the psychological ramifications. Roman here was in a fighting ring for a long time. He was a prizefighter, until he met his match. Another dog attacked him so severely it ruined his back leg, and his owner had no use for him. Animal rescue services found him wandering the streets. He had lost so much blood from his back leg, it had to be amputated. We traced him back to his owner, whose daughter told us Roman’s story. Her dad is doing jail time now for animal abuse.”

  “Is that what all those scars are from? The fighting?” asked Shelley, still talking in practically a whisper.

  I looked more closely at what she was referring to. All along Roman’s fur were small lines, scars telling stories of his previous life. His body resembled dolphins I’d seen in the ocean who had been hit by boats or attacked by sharks, their rubbery skin covered in slash marks that would never heal. I did feel sorry for the dog, but at the same time, Kevin had just verified that he really was a trained killing machine. What business did I have training Roman? Was I, an incarcerated teen, so disposable that I could be used as an experiment in this killer-dog training process?

  As though Kevin could read my thoughts, he added, “Just to let you know, Roman has been in training for a long time, Iris. There’s nothing to be afraid of. We would never give you a dog who was dangerous.”

  “If he’s all trained, then why is he still here?” asked Randy. I couldn’t even see Tinkerbelle, who was hiding behind his massive legs.

  “Well, he still needs work—it’s a slow process to undo all the damage that’s been done and have him gain our trust. Also, it’s really hard to adopt out a three-legged dog. People want a dog that looks like…” Kevin paused, contemplating his word choice.

  “A dog?” said Talbot.

  “Exactly, but I think you’ll find that Roman can do everything other dogs can do.” Kevin handed the leash to me. “You ready for him?”

  No. I wasn’t ready to take charge of a recovering killer. I wouldn’t ever be ready—but did I have a choice? I reached out my shaky arm to Kevin. As soon as I made contact with the leash, Roman ran over to me and sniffed my feet. I kicked them up and toward his nose to shoo him away. He growled, and my fingers automatically released the leash.

  The dog took off across the grass, and Kevin followed him.

  “That was hysterical,” said Randy. “You got the dog to run away in two seconds flat!”

  “Why’d you kick him?” asked Talbot.

  The waters rose quickly.

  “She didn’t kick him,” said Oak. At least someone had been watching.

  “He was coming after my feet.” I could feel myself start to hyperventilate.

  Kevin returned with the stupid dog in tow. “I’d like everyone to sit down again.”

  The wet grass seeped through my pants. I hoped that when I got up, it wouldn’t look like I had gone to the bathroom.

  “Like I said, these dogs have a history,” said Kevin. “It’s our job to take that experience and figure out the best way to relate to the animal.”

  “I didn’t kick the dog,” I said. My caffeine buzz was wearing off, as was my patience with that girl with the pink hair. Who did she think she was, pointing a finger at me without even knowing me?

  “Yes, you did,” said Talbot.

  I was tired of being quiet—tired of being wrongly accused. Everyone thought I was violent anyway. Wasn’t that what they were saying about me?

  Before I knew it, I’d sprung to my feet, heat emanating from my body. I towered over her. I had all the power. Leaning down toward her, I watched with satisfaction as she cowered.

  “I didn’t kick the dog,” I practically spat in her face. Adrenaline coursed through my body.

  Before I knew it, Kevin was occupying what little space remained between the two of us. “That’s enough, Iris. Come sit over here.”

  My heart was still thumping as he led me to my new seat between Oak and Randy.

  “She didn’t mean to make contact with the dog,” Kevin said to Talbot. “What I saw was someone who was perhaps a bit nervous shuffle her feet when an eighty-pound pit bull approached. Now let’s end this.”

  I couldn’t have said it better.

  “However,” said Kevin.

  Oh, boy.

  “Knowing Roman’s history, we have to remember that his owner was abusive. When he would go to lift his leg, it more often than not came down on Roman’s back. Or as a kick to the face. So the dog is reacting to his own experience. Our job is to retrain these dogs to trust humans. We need to rewrite their histories so that they see us as the good guys and not as the enemy.”

  Rewriting history? What a joke. It wasn’t even possible. Didn’t Kevin know that everyone wanted to rewrite history? Everyone had something in their past that they wished they could make disappear. Of course I would have liked to rewrite history so that I passed my English final and I didn’t have to spend the summer here. If I could, I’d go back in time and make it so that Mrs. Schneider never found my list, or, better yet, make it so that my mom never got in that car two years ago.

  “What about the rest of them?” asked Randy, Tinkerbelle resting in his lap.

  Kevin knew all of their histories. “Well, Bruce here was a street dog. He was found extremely emaciated. We don’t know if he ever had a real home. And Persia’s owner”—he motioned toward Oak’s German shepherd—“was a drug dealer. Persia came to us with a bullet in his shoulder. You’ll notice he has a bit of a limp. And Tinkerbelle, well, she was a prize-winning breeding dog forced to litter puppies year after year.”

  “Is that why she has those funny things dangling from her?” asked Randy.

  “Those are teats,” I said.

  “It’s where she produced milk,” added Kevin.

  Randy looked down to further inspect. “Gross!” He lifted the dog off of his lap.

  “Did you grow up on a farm?” asked Oak.

  I realized I must have sounded strange to be so scared of dogs and yet know random names for their anatomy. “Animal Planet junkie,” I said quietly.

  He nodded as though he understood exactly what I meant. “History Channel buff,” he whispered back.

  I smiled.

  Kevin continued, “So what do you say? Are you up for the challenge of getting these dogs trained?”

  “Do we have a choice?” asked Randy.

  “There’s always a choice,” said Kevin. He handed me Roman’s leash again. This time, when the dog came to smell my feet, I stayed very still, as you’re supposed to do with bees. Roman looked like he was inhaling my shoelaces through his nostrils, sniffing intently. But then he decided he was done and had a seat next to me, his head resting on his front paws.

  “What are we doing today?” asked Shelley.

  “Just getting to know our dogs. Getting to know each other. And we’ll learn how to hold a leash. So everyone stand up,” said Kevin.

  Did he think we were idiots? How hard could it be to hold a leash?

  “There is a proper way. I’ll use Bruce as an example.” Kevin borrowed Shelley’s dog. “So this is how it works. Leashes don’t work when you hold them like this,” he said, demonstrating the way we were all casually holding them. “They only work if you hold them like this.”

  He took the loop of the leash handle in
his right hand and then held the leash with his left. “This is how you tell a dog that you’re in control.”

  “Why doesn’t this work?” asked Talbot. Her dog was way out in front of her, and Talbot had her forefinger casually hooked around the leash.

  “Because your dog is leading you. He’s telling you that he is the boss, but you need to be the boss in order for him to feel safe.”

  “Do you really think this little thing thinks it’s the boss of me?” said Randy, regarding the pint-sized Chihuahua at his feet. “I could sit on it and practically end its life!”

  “Randy!” screamed Talbot.

  “What? Are you going to report me to PETA? I’m just telling it like it is,” said Randy.

  “Your dog doesn’t respect you yet, Randy,” said Kevin.

  “How do you know?” asked Randy.

  Kevin pointed toward the dog. “See how she’s sitting with her back toward you, totally not in tune with what you might want her to be doing?”

  “I thought she was just sunbathing,” said Randy.

  “Watch this.” Kevin gave Bruce’s leash to Oak, who looked a little lost with a dog on each arm, and went over to Tinkerbelle. Kevin took the leash, holding it with his right hand looped and his left hand holding the leash and gave a slight tug. Tinkerbelle abruptly stood up and came around to face Kevin.

  “That is being in control of your dog. That’s how you properly hold a leash. Now I want you all to try.” Kevin handed Tinkerbelle’s leash back to Randy.

  I tried to hold the leash as Kevin had shown us, but Roman didn’t budge.

  “Face me!” I said to my dog, whose ears perked up right away as though he fully understood my command—but instead of calmly turning his attention toward me as Kevin had demonstrated, Roman began yanking on the leash. I held on tightly to the other end, paying particular attention to how close my feet were coming to him because the last thing I wanted to do was make him think that I was about to beat him up like his previous owner.

  “Give just a little tug.” Kevin looked on, and I listened and jerked ever so slightly on the leash. Like magic, Roman perked up and turned around to look at me. Everyone else was still struggling with this exercise.

  “Great work, Iris!” said Kevin.

  I felt like I had the magic touch. Garrett was rolling on his back, and Persia was having a light snack of fresh grass. Their dogs were being ornery.

  Nothing had gone my way like this in a long time. Not my bike wheels staying inflated. Not summer school being avoided. Not mothers staying alive. Nothing. But just now, I’d experienced what it felt like for things to go well.

  “Your dog had an accident,” announced Talbot.

  I looked down. There on the grass was one of the largest dog dumps in all of dog-dump history.

  “You need a bag?” Kevin asked, pulling a blue plastic baggie from his back pocket.

  “For what?” I played dumb.

  “The poop.” This got everyone else’s attention, and they stopped what they were doing to watch the showdown.

  “What poop?” I asked.

  “Iris, I’m not stupid. Here’s the bag.” His tone seemed to have shifted from supportive to admonishing. I was embarrassed. I wished everyone would just focus on their own dogs and stop staring at me.

  “I’m not cleaning up poop,” I said quietly. I wasn’t about to let myself be degraded in such a demeaning way, forced to pick up poop from this animal that I didn’t even like, while everyone watched like I was some sort of circus act.

  “It’s part of the deal,” said Kevin. “If you’re not sure how to do it, I can show you.”

  “Who doesn’t know how to pick up a dump?” asked Randy.

  Everyone laughed, and I felt the waters rise swiftly all the way to my neck. Why was the world out to embarrass me? I contemplated just walking away from it all. But before my body had time to react, Roman took off again. In my anger, I’d let go of his leash. I chased after him, shouting his name. And, to my surprise, he stopped running and waited for me.

  “Thank you,” I mouthed to him as I picked up the leash and walked back to the group, grabbing the small doggie bag out of Kevin’s hand. I approached the offending area. Sticking my hand in the bag, I picked up the poop, still warm through the plastic. I twisted the bag and waved it around, showing everyone I was capable of picking up dog poop. As I tossed the bag in the trash, Talbot came up to me with her dog. I wondered what the next rude thing to come out of her mouth was going to be.

  “Sorry about all that,” said Talbot.

  “Sorry about what?” I wasn’t about to let her have the satisfaction of knowing she had angered and embarrassed me…twice.

  “It’s this thing I do. When I’m uncomfortable, I find someone to pick on. That someone was you.” She paused. “I’m working on it.”

  Her candor impressed me. When I made a mistake, I blew it off or pretended it never happened, but Talbot was willing to face her gaffes head on. It made it easy to forgive her.

  “Do you like your dog? I could just take mine home with me!” She let Garrett lick her face.

  “I’m not so into dogs,” I said.

  “Well, what are you into?” she asked.

  I shrugged. I didn’t even know anymore. I guess lately I was into composing hit lists and making court appearances.

  “That guy seems like a jerk.” I motioned toward Randy, who was looking my way and laughing at me—probably for the whole dog poop situation.

  “Don’t let him piss you off. He’s nothing but a bully. I can tell. And she”—Talbot pointed to Shelley, who was sitting on the grass with Bruce, pulling up grass at the roots and then chewing on them—“she’s on her own planet. At least that guy seems nice. And maybe even cute if he ever took off that thing.”

  I looked over at Oak. I wasn’t the only one wondering what he’d look like without the hood.

  “He never takes it off,” I said.

  “You know him?”

  “We go to Santa Cruz High. But I’ve never even talked to him before today.”

  “Hey, what are you doing after this? It is summer vacation, right? There’s gotta be some fun to be had,” said Talbot.

  “I have to head home,” I said.

  “Parents?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t get into the fact that at my place it was just parent, nor did I tell her that my afternoon would consist of preparing dinner for myself, and then a whole lot of nature TV. Dad would no doubt be working late. I was happy to learn that his date with Janet had been a bust.

  Talbot shrugged. “Well, maybe another time. My dad’s always riding me about bringing home a ‘decent and respectable’ friend.”

  “Um, don’t forget you met me at juvenile community service,” I said.

  “Hey, it’s better than some of the other people I’ve been hanging out with, believe you me.”

  Kevin interrupted us. “Okay, gang. You’ve taken in a lot today: met your dogs, learned about leash leading. And,” he said, glancing over at me, “some of you were even educated on the various methods of picking up canine excrement. All in all, a full afternoon. If you could bring your dogs to the van and then take their leashes off, I’ll see you all again tomorrow.”

  I had made it through day one. Only twenty-nine more to go.

  Not that I was counting.

  six

  Doug Loggins, my court-appointed therapist, didn’t get much out of me that first day. He kept waiting for me to speak, as if I had anything to say. Somehow, we ended up chatting about my favorite juice combinations that Dad had brought home, as though the medley of beet-carrot-apple juice contained some deep commentary about my psyche.

  “Well, this was good,” Doug said when our time was up. “But next time, let’s focus less on vegetables and more on your anger.”

  I left embarrassed and dreaded my next office visit.

  That first week of dog training inched forward. Because summer school didn’t start until Thursday, I was able to sle
ep in a few days more (once Dad was done puttering around the house early in the morning).

  I wore my running shoes every day to work with the dogs so I’d be armed and ready to bolt as fast as my legs would take me if things got scary. Within the first couple of days, I had successfully taught Roman how to walk and stay on a leash, always exercising caution. He had a habit of bringing his nose to my hand when I praised him, which made me uncomfortable, so as soon as he’d perform a task successfully, I’d lift my hand to mess with my hair, scratch my face—anything to have it unavailable for Roman’s wet-nose press. He’d look at me with his sad eyes.

  “Let’s stick to the lesson,” I’d tell him.

  By Wednesday, it seemed as though everyone had become best friends with their dogs, except for me. Even Randy and Tinkerbelle were hitting it off, playing tug of war with a stick. It was a hot day, and Kevin brought out some spray bottles. The dogs were having fun getting wet. When I sprayed water in Roman’s face, he tried to bite it. Go figure.

  “Hang out after this?” asked Talbot from across the grass, rolling around on the ground with her dog.

  “I can’t. I have plans,” I lied.

  I couldn’t manage the friends I had (if they still considered themselves my friends), let alone forge ahead with a new friendship. Yesterday afternoon I’d caught a glimpse of Ashley when I rode by Pergolesi after dog training. She was bringing someone an iced coffee drink on the wraparound porch. I’m pretty sure she saw me because she started to lift her hand up to wave, but then, as though her instincts got the best of her, her hand froze at waist level, and I turned the corner.

  “Suit yourself,” Talbot said, turning her attention back to her dog. “You’d hang out with me this weekend, wouldn’t you, Garrett?” She was lying on her back as her dog stood over her, and she rubbed his belly. The dog loved it and started kicking its hind leg repeatedly in pleasure.

  I walked Roman to a shady spot and tried my best to imitate Talbot’s body position and laidback attitude. From my vantage point on my back, Roman looked even bigger and more intimidating, but if this is how one played with a dog, I was going to give it a try. He responded to my new positioning right away, coming over to check it out. He nudged me with his nose. It tickled. I gently pushed him back. He didn’t get the message and came at me again, this time jabbing me in the hip.