We pull up to the house. It’s not very big, which is strange, because it’s surrounded by so much land. I guess they want to make room for more animals. Elephants, maybe? Giraffes? Lions? Tigers? Bears? Ugh … I’m here all because of that bear. If I had just walked away, none of this would be happening. I’d be home, with all my stuff. Making money.
The Jeep stops, and I immediately jump out so I can get further away from this guy that used to be my dad. One step in, and my feet sink deep into the mud, swallowing my shoes. Why can’t he live in the city like a normal person? I grab my backpack and suitcase; the weight of it makes me stumble backward. I try to grab the Jeep, but I’m falling. I lose my balance, and my butt lands in the mud. Splash. My dad laughs. I try to get up. My hand sinks into the thick, slushy brown dirt, kind of locking me in place.
“That’s a good look on you,” he says, and makes his way around the Jeep, stopping in front of me.
“You could have warned me,” I say.
“Warned you of what? That mud could be … muddy?” he replies, and laughs again—this time offering me his hand.
I take it, not with my clean hand, but with the one covered in mud. He accepts it anyway and launches me out of my mud seat. I stand, covered in brown from the waist down. And now that I have a better look, I see he pulled up and lined the passenger door directly above the mud puddle. He did this on purpose. I’m 96 percent sure of it.
“Looks like we may have to hose you down,” he says, while wiping his muddy hand on his jeans.
“You’re not hosing me down,” I say, even though a part of me did imagine boot camp consisting of getting hosed down and stripped of all your confidence like they do in military movies. They have to break you down to build you up. That’s how they brainwash you.
But this isn’t the boot camp, right? My dad wouldn’t run it. The only running he’s capable of is running away. And running his mouth. And running up his tab at the bar. But being in charge of a boot camp? No way.
“Windy Wendy ain’t gonna let you waltz into the house covered in earth poop.”
“Windy Wendy?”
“That’s what I call her. But only sometimes, when she can’t hear me,” he says.
“Why?”
“She’s a gust of a gal. You’ll see,” he says.
“Okay. That makes no sense, but okay.”
As I fling the mud off my right hand, two dogs come galloping from around the house to meet us. They are large like wolves. My dad is tackled by them as soon as he kneels down to welcome them. He proceeds to roll around on the ground with them, covering himself in earth poop. I guess he’s getting the hose too. “Gimoodishkiiwinini,” my dad shouts from the ground and points at me.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Thief,” he says.
As soon as his words leave his lips, both dogs stop and turn their gaze to me. One is black. One is brown. Both are coated in mud. And both are growling.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” he says.
I freeze. I never had a dog. The only pet I had was a rat named Animosh, which means dog in Ojibwe. Rats are dogs for people who live in small apartments.
“What do I do?” I whisper.
“Slowly … run,” he replies in a loud whisper.
“I thought you said don’t move,” I snap back.
“Too late for that. They smell your goshi.”
“What’s a goshi?”
“They smell your fear. You need to run. Slowly.”
“How does someone run slowly?” I ask, feeling my heart beat faster as my eyes fix on their sharp white teeth as they continue to territorially growl.
“Like in slow motion?” he says. It sounds like a question.
“That’s ridiculous,” I say.
“Ridiculous, you say?” My dad narrows his eyes and smiles. “Sic him!” he shouts.
Both dogs launch themselves toward me. I immediately try to run, but my legs can’t keep up with my frightened rabbit feet. So I slip into the mud and my body splashes onto the thick and frothy ground—face-first.
The dogs charge through the mud, and I close my eyes, bracing for impact. I hope for whatever happens to be quick and painless. I imagine muddy blood and bloody mud everywhere. A crime scene that requires heavy boots and a steel stomach.
I was sent here to die. My parents conspired together to get rid of me. These dogs will eat me alive, even my bones, leaving no trace of me. I can hear it now. He got on the bus in Duluth, but never arrived in Grand Portage. It will be an unsolved mystery forever.
The two hounds draw nearer; I take a deep breath as their bodies collide into mine like two trains hitting a wall at once. Here it is. Death. Here come the teeth. The inevitable bite down. The dismemberment. But all I feel is … What is that? It’s slimy and wet … Are those tongues? Is one in my ear?
I open my eyes and find myself completely pinned to the ground, with both dogs licking, slobbering, and drooling all over my face. All of this happening while a loud, belly-filled laugh rolls through the air.
I pick my head up and see my dad beside himself, laughing hysterically, holding his gut, like if he were to let go, his intestines would be spilling onto his muddy boots.
I wrestle up, fending off the two canines as they do everything in their power to drench me. After a few failed attempts, I finally make it to my feet.
“I almost crapped my pants,” I shout at him, who has just now finally stopped laughing.
“Did you think I said ‘sic him’? I said ‘soak him,’” he manages to say, erupting in a second wave of laughter.
His face streams with tears, and his hair bounces with each chuckle. It almost sends a spark of anger through my body, seeing him so happy at my expense. I remind myself that he doesn’t deserve happiness. After all, he robbed me of mine.
His cheeks used to be puffy and red. Now they are sharp, and sunken in. They even cast small shadows under the bone. Being happy looks really good on him, but I doubt it will last. If he’s good at anything, it is letting people down. He taps his thigh, and both dogs rush back to him and sit at his feet, awaiting his next command.
“You didn’t run slow enough,” he says.
“That doesn’t make sense. And now I smell like dog. No. Now I smell like two dogs,” I say, wiping my wet hands onto my muddy jeans, which does nothing but add more mud to my everywhere.
“Well, introduce yourself.”
“You want me to introduce myself to your dogs?”
“They’re your roommates for the next however long we got, so yeah, you should introduce yourself, obviously,” he says, like it’s strange I even asked.
“Hi, dogs. I’m Benny. What are your names, Muddy and Muddier?”
“They’re dogs, kiddo. They don’t speak English,” my dad says in a tone suggesting I’m the strange one here.
“I know that, but you said … Never mind,” I say.
“This is Rolex.” He points to the brown dog.
“And this is Casio.” He points to the black dog.
“That’s their real names?” I ask.
“Of course. They’re my watch dogs,” he says.
“Hi, Rolex and Casio,” I say.
“We have a third dog, Apple, but she’s out on a hike with Wendy.”
“Let me guess, she’s white?” I say.
“Wendy or the dog?” he asks.
“Your dog. Not Wendy.”
“Both are white. Apple and Wendy.”
He snaps his fingers, and Casio and Rolex go running off into the enormous field. It takes a second for me to process his words. Wendy is white. He has a white girlfriend. I don’t care about her skin color, not really. I mean, there are plenty of good white people in the world, but I do care that he has a girlfriend that isn’t a Native American woman that I call Mom. And the way he just tosses it out there makes me mad all over again.
Before I can even get madder, my thoughts are washed away by a strong stream of water hitting me in the thighs. I look up at my dad, and he is firing his hose at me, at full strength, laughing while aiming. Soaking. Drenching. Engulfing me. While intermittently turning the hose on himself, dousing his entire body. I can’t help but laugh as the spray hits his face, sending him back stumbling, tripping over the coiled hose’s neck and falling back into the mud like he’s one of those funny comedians in those movies we used to watch when I was little. It’s a clown fighting a water snake. We’d laugh, rewind it, watch it again. Laugh again. He loved Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. Which made me love them. Now I avoid them.
But … at least the water is warm. Or maybe it’s not—maybe it just seems warm compared to the blistering cold air. I wonder if I’ll freeze and turn to ice if I stay out here long enough? I don’t want to find out. My fingers hurt.
“It’s called Dog Wind,” he says to me as he rises to his feet.
“What is?”
“The wind here. She starts barking, letting you know she’s here. Then, she licks your face, getting a feel for you, letting you get a feel for her … but if you stay out here any longer without a scarf, coat, and mittens, then that dog starts biting. And she’s got a nasty bite.”
“Down, girl!” I shout to the wind, grab my stuff, and run toward the front door.
“No shoes in the house!” he shouts as I reach the screen door.
He’s right. A pile of muddy shoes pyramids the front porch. My dad has very big feet. Wendy has small feet. I kick off my shoes, peel back the screen, open the front door, and step inside.