By the end of May, we’d completed eight weeks of training. All our dogs, even the doggedly dumb Romeo and vertically stunted Sir Sniffs-a-Lot, Clark Kent, had come a long way. Most had learned to heel, lead a blind person, stop at curbs, retrieve anything we asked for, help someone in a wheelchair get dressed, push elevator and automatic door buttons, and flip light switches. Daffodil and Rex even mastered the ins and outs of a revolving door. I know people who have trouble with that!
There were four weeks of lessons to go. Then LuLu would administer the Public Access Test. The dogs who passed would meet the recipients—the disabled people—they’d be paired with, go home with. That was a detail I totally refused to think about.
When Rex and I showed up for our Monday class, JJ Pico had returned. After he’d skipped the field trip to the mall and a few classes after that, I thought maybe he’d dropped out.
JJ deliberately didn’t look my way, but I kept him in my crosshairs. He found a seat at the far end of the row, crossed his arms, slouched, and stretched out his legs. If he was trying for cool, casual, and comfortable, he missed by a leg—specifically, the one he couldn’t keep still. It was bouncing and shaking. He was uncomfortable? Nervous?
Good.
“They’ve got some catching up to do. But if we all pitch in, I’m betting we can bring Otis up to speed.” LuLu had been talking. It was something about devoting extra time to help out the truants.
Overtime with JJ and Otis?
Trey, Clark Kent’s trainer, raised his arm. “Sorry, but I can’t stay late to help. My schedule is really packed.”
What he said. ’Cause no way was I aiding and abetting a known liar. Why had he even bothered to come back? No one wanted him here. Well, maybe Lissa, his at-risk buddy.
“Isn’t it great that JJ’s back? You have another chance to get the truth out of him!” And Rex. His excited barks echoed off the walls.
LuLu was on to today’s lesson, which she termed “the bootie class.”
In dog training class, bootie means … little boots. She distributed packets containing four paw-sized bright red booties with pebbled rubber soles, mesh uppers, and velcro straps. Megan and Maria, trainers of Romeo and Daffodil, cooed, “These are so cute!” while Clark Kent’s Trey and Chainsaw’s Lissa grumbled, “These are ridiculous.” Two people didn’t react: me and JJ.
“These are your Bark’n Boots,” LuLu told us. “They may look a little undignified, but they serve an important purpose for a service dog. Can anyone guess what that is?”
Nothing besides “dumb fashion accessory” came to mind.
Maria had a thought. “To protect them from the scorching heat of the sidewalk?”
“Excellent guess.” LuLu gave her props. “That’s one reason.”
“But their paws are padded. Isn’t that enough?” Trey wondered.
“You’re right, and for most dogs, most of the time, that would be enough. But what if your dog goes to live with someone in a city, and has to spend long stretches on that hot sidewalk? Or your dog may end up in a snowy climate—ice gets caught in the pockets between the pads. That’s very painful for a dog. Ice can also be slippery, so the bottoms of the booties have deep grooves, like a tire. Anytime the dog has to be on rough terrain, the rubber soles give them traction, helps keep them—and their partner—upright.”
“What about sand?” I surprised myself by joining the conversation. “People take dogs to the beach.”
“Grains of sand can be irritating,” LuLu agreed. “When the dog is working at a beach, the booties should be worn at least some of the time.”
Another tidbit: dogs sweat through their paws, so they shouldn’t spend long stretches of time in the booties.
Our goal for today was to get the dogs comfortable in their booties, not to struggle when their owners put them on; to be able to walk naturally in them.
Mission: not easily accomplished.
But it was a hoot. In the old days, I’d have texted pictures to Mercy, Jasmine, and Kendra—I kind of wanted to now, but the sound of my laughter was strange to my ears. And I was laughing hard. We all were.
None of the dogs, not even Rex, adapted easily to paw coverings. Clark Kent worked at biting his off, and Romeo refused to stand once Megan got them on him. Otis was traumatized. He kept them on, but no amount of cajoling could get the petrified poodle to proceed forward.
The rest, Rex, Daffodil, and Chainsaw, acted like they’d stepped in a sticky oil spill and were trying to extract themselves, one paw at a time. They obeyed our “let’s go” command but looked like clumsy newborn colts, tripping all over themselves, unable to get their footing. They danced, they hopped, they wobbled, they teetered and tottered, their paws flailed out sideways. They’d raise one paw at a time really high in the air, then clomp it down hard. It was almost as if they were deliberately trying to be funny: a YouTube moment if ever there was one.
For the first time in months, I laughed so hard, I felt real tears.
When I saw JJ smiling, I shut down.
Neither of us should have been having fun.
And I shouldn’t be forced into helping him catch up—no one should.
After class, I said as much to LuLu. Not that I expected her to change her mind. Our leader had a ton of great qualities, but flexibility wasn’t one of them. Her response, however, unnerved me. “If JJ were any other kid, I’d agree with you. No one should be able to skip all those classes, return, and expect everyone to scramble so he can get caught up.”
“Why the exception for him?” I said warily.
“A request came from the juvenile division of the West Palm Police, asking that we admit Mr. Pico and his dog to the program and give him special attention if he needed it.”
“Who on the squad told you that?” I asked.
She looked momentarily confused. “I thought you’d know.”
I reddened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“In that case,” she said delicately, “you might want to ask someone in your family.”
I might not. Because if she was implying that my dad had placed JJ in this program, that would mean they knew each other well. That my dad had worked with him. And even if my mom had mentioned the possibility, even if Rex had gushed, “He worshipped your dad,” it still couldn’t be true.
Grudgingly, I benched the JJ situation, at least temporarily. I had to focus on facts, formulas, and French idioms. After school, on the days I didn’t have canine training, I went for brain training. Tutoring, that is. Mercy and I met at the library, where she was determined to pound enough world culture into me that I’d pass the final. Since I’d stopped paying attention, the class had covered three units: Africa, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia. I’d been mentally MIA for all of it. Even now, I couldn’t drum up a lot of interest. Used to be, I’d find a creative way to make even the most boring subject palatable—boring, as in Russian Revolution snooze-inducing—and pull off As.
Now I could only hope my ability to memorize stuff hadn’t abandoned me.
I got lucky. With Mercy as a tutor, and my own rusty, yet still functioning skills, by the end of our first week, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe I wouldn’t fail everything.
Mercy confessed relief. No way did she want to remove her nose ring.
By the second week, it looked like I was going to be okay in social studies and science. And maybe language arts. Though The Pigman & Me wasn’t too interesting, at least I finished it.
As for the dreaded algebra, I struggled on my own. Math professor Mom was clueless about the rank school situation, and I hoped to keep it that way. I let her think I was just hanging out with Mercy and the girls after school. It was nice to see the hope in Mom’s eyes. Maybe one day it wouldn’t be a total lie.
Then there was French. Jasmine’s idea of tutoring was simple yet effective. She simply handed me the answers to the homework assignments, which I copied, and effectively got credit.
Jazz had a knack for knowing when pop quizzes were about to happen, and supplied me with those answers, too. I didn’t ask questions. Just because Rex-the-talking-dog said she was cheating didn’t make it true.
Doubt nagged at me, especially when one day in the middle of class, Jasmine was summoned to the guidance counselor’s office. A session with Ms. Downy was never a good thing, even when it didn’t involve talk therapy or grief counseling.
“Be right back,” she mouthed to me and Kendra.
She didn’t return that period, or the next.