I woke up a few hours later no more certain about Rex, but definitely on a mission. My personal campaign to force JJ Pico to confess was on. Between classes, I barraged him with texts and voice messages. Confession is good for the soul. And Tell the cops. And The police can protect you. Ask me how. I wasn’t surprised that he never responded. Later, at Canine Connections, I planned to harangue him in person.
Only—not so fast.
The first clue that something was different today at Canine Connections was olfactory: The place smelled great! Instead of its usual dog aroma, the scent of freshly baked sweets filled the air. I traced it to LuLu’s desk, where sure enough, a platter of chocolate-chip cookies and cupcakes sat enticingly.
We had visitors! Their excited chatter reverberated around the room. All were kids, some with parents, some without. All disabled.
Last clue: LuLu brought the cheese. “Good arf ternoon!” she joked, sounding seriously un-LuLu-like. We trooped in, Maria with Daffodil, Megan with Romeo, Lissa with Chainsaw, Trey with Clark Kent, JJ with Otis, me with Rex, all of us present—and bewildered. Were we supposed to greet the newcomers? Ignore them? Introduce ourselves? We looked to our leader for guidance.
“Take your seats, trainers,” LuLu said. “As you can see, some very special guests have joined us.”
“And brought cake!” Rex raved, drooling copiously.
“These people have traveled from all over the country to be here. Each one has been selected from a huge pool of applicants to receive a service dog. These are the kids that you have been working for, the young people your dogs will go home with!” Lulu said gleefully.
I must have gasped, since she was quick to add, “Not today, of course. There’s the Public Access Test to take, and the personal pairings to be done. But the group”—she indicated the visitors—“was anxious to meet you and get a look at their new partners.”
I squirmed. Of course Rex wasn’t going anywhere with anyone. We did this only so Regan could rock her essay and get into college.
“For the next week or so,” LuLu went on, “our guests will live in our specially equipped dorms and go through orientation. This is so we—myself and the staff at Canine Connections—can get to know each person, and better understand his or her individual needs. That way, we can decide which dog fits best with each candidate. Then we’ll custom-train the dogs and their new owners together. Does that make sense?”
Not as it applied to Rex it didn’t.
LuLu asked for one of the moms, a chunky round-faced lady, to address us. It was more like she beamed at us. “Hi, everyone, I’m Ronnie Souther, Kaitlyn’s mom.” She gestured to a little girl in a wheelchair. “On behalf of everyone, I thank you for training these wonderful animals. We’re so grateful and can’t wait to meet our new helpers. If you’ll indulge us, each of the kids has prepared something to say to you. But there’s one thing I want to say before we start, and I hope it stays with you: ‘Some angels have wings, others have tails.’ You guys, the trainers, are giving us our angels.”
Today’s weather? Sappy. With a real chance of tears.
Mrs. Souther’s daughter, Kaitlyn, a spunky little girl in a wheelchair, went first. She told us she lived in Spokane, Washington, and was in third grade. Confidently, she read from her notebook. “I was born with spina bifida, which means my legs aren’t too strong. I want to use crutches instead of a wheelchair in school, and with the help of a dog, I can do that and stay balanced. My dog can also help carry my school things.”
I flashed on our dogs at CVS, carrying our purchases.
Kaitlyn took a breath, and scanned her paper. “Other things I want my dog to do are open the refrigerator, and …” A blush crept up her small neck. She turned to look at her mom, who jumped right in. “Kaitlyn has trouble getting in and out of the bathtub.” She knelt to whisper in her daughter’s ear. A wide grin appeared on the girl’s face. “I almost forgot. I play sled hockey and my dog can help me at the tournament!”
“Sled hockey,” LuLu explained, “is hockey on sleds instead of on skates. Kaitlyn also swims, plays basketball, and skis. She won first place in the butterfly stroke in the Special Olympics.”
The kid was an athlete. Cool.
Kaitlyn wrapped up with, “I want to thank you and can’t wait to meet my dog!”
Daffodil, I caught myself thinking. The yellow Lab would be perfect for her.
Next up was ten-year-old Hailey, who’d traveled from Kansas City. She suffered from arthrogryposis—a disability I’d never heard of. As Hailey explained, it meant her muscles were very weak and some of her joints were shorter than they should be. Even with the use of crutches, she was severely limited physically—walking, bending, and getting up were hardest. “My new dog will help me by picking up things I’ve dropped,” she read. “He or she will be something sturdy for me to hang on to if I’m slipping. That would make me feel safe. I also want my dog to help me chase boys at recess!” Her hand flew to her mouth as an explosion of giggles erupted.
It was catching. Soon the whole room was laughing with her.
If she ends up with Romeo, I caught myself picturing it, the boys will be running to her. With that beautiful chocolate Lab by her side, this little girl will be the center of attention—not for her disability, either.
The stories continued, equal parts heartfelt and hopeful.
Joss, from Tennessee, lost his sight in an accident. He just got accepted to a college halfway across the country. “Going away from home for the first time will force me into a new environment,” he explained. “I’ll have to learn the layout of the campus, of my classes, my dorm. With a dog, it’s my best chance.”
Chainsaw, I immediately thought. The German shepherd had been a quick study when the dogs were learning to cross streets, avoid obstacles, and open doors. Chainsaw would be a good match for Joss.
Another boy, about my age, from Bangor, Maine, had severe respiratory disorder. “I get very depressed,” he admitted. “And I keep losing my inhaler. I heard dogs could be trained to sniff out the inhaler and bring it to me.”
“Look,” “find,” “retrieve,” “give it to me.” All were basic commands the dogs had mastered. Otis. The pooch with the fewest class hours was probably the smartest. Otis could be taught what an inhaler was—he’d quickly memorize its unique odor—and learn to associate the word with the item. Bonus, the sight of that poufy poodle in his protective booties could lift the depression from a gloomy gray cloud cluster.
Thinking about Otis reminded me—time to nudge JJ. We hadn’t said a word to each other since getting here, nor even made eye contact. I had a note prepared, How can you live with yourself?, which I folded and passed to him. I watched with dismay as he crumpled it up. Whatever. He couldn’t ignore me forever.
The smallest child in the room was Daniel, only six. He didn’t say anything because he couldn’t. “Daniel is severely autistic,” his mom explained. “He has no language, no friends, and a terrifying habit of running away. Once, he opened up a side window and crawled out of the house. It took us an hour to find him.” She swallowed at the memory. “I plan to use a double leash on our new dog. When we go out, I’ll hold one, and one will be attached to a harness around Daniel. That way, Daniel will stay safe.” Her hopes included teaching Daniel to talk. “Seeing the dog respond to words may help our boy put words and actions together. And when he has meltdowns, I’m hoping a dog will comfort him and …” She had trouble finishing. “Be his friend.” She dabbed her eyes. So did Maria, Megan, and even Trey.
A big dog wouldn’t work for a boy so small. Clark Kent would.
Last to talk was a girl named Kim, from Orlando, Florida. She’d seemed unable to stay still throughout the class. She was all jerks and twitches and tics, her body twisted at weird angles. Haltingly, and with a speech impediment, she told us she had cerebral palsy. Her disorder isolated her from the kids at school. She saw a service dog as an icebreaker. “People are scared or intimidated because of my disability. And,” she continued with difficulty, “I want to have someone who will love me no matter what I look like.”
My heart clutched. I knew which dog would serve her best. But no way was I giving up Rex. I pulled him closer to me and stroked his head.
“Is it time for cookies?” he asked, looking up at me hopefully.
I’ll give you all the cookies you want—if you just stay.
I hadn’t said anything about today’s Canine Connections class, but at dinner I sulked in silence, pushing the food around the plate.
My mom thought she knew why. “Tomorrow is going to be a tough one,” she acknowledged, reaching out to cover my hand with hers.
“Tomorrow?” I repeated numbly.
“June second. Dad’s birthday,” Regan reminded me. “You, of all people, forgot?”
I was horrified. Forgetting the first birthday my dad didn’t live to see felt like a betrayal. “Can I be excused?” I mumbled, anxious to get away.
“No, you cannot,” Regan responded sternly.
“What?” Who was she to boss me around? She’d had a party when she should have been grieving.
Even Mom looked at her with surprise. “Of course Grace can go if she wants.”
“Ugh.” Regan rolled her eyes and pushed herself away from the table. “I was going to wait until after dinner. But since little miss pouty puss is about to lock herself away, I’ll do it now.” With that, my big sister dramatically strode off. She returned a minute later bearing gifts.
“What is this?” Mom asked. Regan had given us identically wrapped presents. Judging by the gifts’ shape and heft, I would have guessed a large-sized book, but I couldn’t picture my sister making it past the café in Barnes & Noble.
“Open it,” she said. “It’s to celebrate tomorrow.”
Celebrate? Without him? Even in Regan’s “getting back to normal” world, that was so wrong.
Mom went first. I watched her expression change from perplexed to touched as she extracted a large framed photograph, and lovingly ran her finger across it. I leaned over to see. It was a candid of Mom and Dad strolling on the beach, holding hands, eyes on each other. It was a fairly recent shot, and among the most beautiful I’d ever seen of them.
“I remember when you took this picture, Regan.” Mom’s voice was thick with emotion. “Where’d you find it?”
“In the trash heap that Grace calls her room,” she answered. “When I was cleaning it up.”
“Go on, Grace,” Mom urged. “Open yours.”
The photo took my breath away. It was a close-up of Dad and me. I must have been around eight. My arms were draped around his neck, my head rested on his shoulder, my hair tickled his shoulder blades. I wasn’t smiling, but the look in my eyes said it all: I had absolute faith that this man, my daddy, would protect me and love me unconditionally. Forever.
My throat was closed to traffic—due to the lump that suddenly formed and blocked the passageway.
“Anyway, she has a ton of pictures in there,” Regan blithely babbled, “completely disorganized.”
“They were just snapshots,” I managed to croak out while staring at my younger face. “Blown up they look so … amazing.”
The one she’d chosen for herself surprised me. It didn’t center on Regan, but was a photo from when we were a family of four.
“There were so many to choose from,” Regan said softly, almost like she was talking to herself, “but these, they spoke to me, if you know what I mean.” A lone teardrop spilled from Regan’s exquisite eye.