I should have been dreading the Public Access Test. Except that would mean I’d actually thought about it.
Unfortunately, no matter what I thought, or didn’t think, it was coming. Soon. Like final exams, heat waves, and hurricane season. Even though I’d chosen to ignore its existence, I knew exactly what it was. And what it meant.
The Public Access Test was the moment of truth for our dogs, and by extension, us. Had we trained them well enough? Were they confident? Did they respond correctly to commands? Were they able to ignore distractions and laser-focus on their owner? Could we really trust Romeo, Daffodil, Chainsaw, Otis, and Clark Kent to keep a disabled kid safe?
I knew Rex could.
And, in other circumstances, I’d have proudly handed him over with confidence. He’d be a life-changer for a physically challenged kid.
Now? Giving him up was unthinkable. Rex had come home with us for a reason, which I was only just starting to grasp.
I rationalized everything else away. Regan’s essay could still be written as planned. We had, after all, rescued a pound dog and totally trained him to be a service dog. The college wouldn’t care what happened next. Bet they wouldn’t even check up. Rex’s future would not impact Regan’s.
As for Kim, the girl with cerebral palsy who’d probably benefit most from Rex? I felt a little guilty about that, but she’d totally get another highly trained dog. If there isn’t one available from Canine Connections, she could get one from any of the other amazing assistance dog training programs. She didn’t specifically need Rex.
I did.
But how to keep him with me? It all hinged on that test. If he passed, he’d be gone. It was like a missile: once launched, there was no calling it back. He’d go directly from a passing grade to a new home. I saw only one option here.
Rex had to fail.
There are three reasons a trained service dog might get disqualified. He’s either too fearful, too easily startled, or too aggressive and can’t be trusted. Rex had none of those issues, and left to his own devices, he’d ace the test. It was up to me to make sure that didn’t happen.
I went with bribery.
I described in delicious detail the entire turkey carcass entrée and steak bones side dish I would prepare for him—if he did exactly what I said. I spent every moment alone with him for the next three days, drilling this in. Rex was to deliberately disobey LuLu or whoever administered his test. He was to sit when told “Forward.” He would not stop at curbs. He’d bring the remote control when specifically asked for the leash. I showed him how to look confused when given the command to push the elevator button, flip the light switch, or tug the door handle. Rex had to get his dunce dog on, while using his smarts to concentrate on my instructions and no one else’s. He had to remember only one thing—the sumptuous, savory feast that awaited.
Rex was on board. Or so he droolingly assured me every time I mentioned that turkey carcass.
Still, when the day of the test arrived, I felt only semi-secure delivering him to Canine Connections. The whole class was there. We trainers anxiously hovered outside the testing room, chatting and reassuring one another that his or her dog would pass. I felt sure I was the only one hoping my dog got an F.
As it turned out, I had the shortest wait. Although they’d all gone in together, Rex was the first dog to finish the test. It reminded me of a jury returning a verdict quickly, which according to TV shows, means everyone was in instant agreement. The defendant was clearly innocent. Or obviously guilty.
Whatever Rex had done—innocently obeyed me or guiltily performed for the instructors—he’d done it wholeheartedly. He gave me no clue, verbal or otherwise, no matter how much I pestered him. I decided to be positive and assume the best. I gave him his reward.
Bad move. The dog didn’t deserve it. If he hadn’t already digested the turkey when LuLu called later that night with the test results, I would have demanded it back. LuLu didn’t even have to say it; she had me at “Hi, Grace!”
Rex had passed the Public Access Test “with flying colors,” she crowed. I sank down on my bed. She was so proud of both of us, Rex and me. She glowingly recited the play-by-play action, reviewing how brilliantly my dog had performed. She was so elated, she didn’t seem to notice I’d gone mute.
After a few minutes, LuLu’s tone switched from thrilled to thoughtful. Did I have any feelings about which candidate to pair him with? What did I think about the child with spina bifida, or perhaps the blind college student? Or maybe Kim, the last girl who’d spoken?
I couldn’t answer. I was fast-forwarding through the stages of grief.
1. Denial—Surely, LuLu had accidentally called the wrong person. ’Cause Rex had promised to fail the test.
2. Anger—How could Rex betray me? We had an agreement, a pact, a bond. How could he break it?
3. Bargaining—Was there some reason I could come up with to prove Rex had cheated on the test? Could I say I gave him doggy ’roids or something else that might invalidate his score? Or what if I, oops, just found out that he’d never had his shots?
4. Depression—Sadness seeped in as I flipped the phone shut. What if this was really happening?
5. Acceptance is the last stage of grief. I was nowhere near ready for that.
I found it odd that the star of this debacle was not at his usual post, cozied up at the foot of my bed. Nor was he sniffing for a random crumb under some pile in my room. Rex-the-betrayer was nowhere in sight.
Coincidence? I think not. Dogs, like people, know when they have something to feel guilty about. I stalked down the hallway, calling his name.
It was my mom who answered. “He’s with me, Grace. We’re watching TV in the living room.”
I came upon such a sweet scene, I almost went into sugar shock. Rex was curled up on the couch, his head resting on my mom’s lap. She was tenderly stroking his spiky coat. Both pairs of eyes, human and canine, were glued to the TV.
“We’re watching this unbelievable show on cable called My Dog Ate WHAT?” Mom supplied the answer to a question I hadn’t asked. “Come sit with us.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, grabbing Rex by the collar, yanking him off the couch.
“Hey, I was watching that!” Rex groused, trying to wriggle away from me.
Mom was taken aback. “He’s barking because you’re being so rough with him. What’d he do?”
“He knows exactly what he did,” I said through gritted teeth, tightening my grip on his collar. “Let’s go, Rex.”
Tail tucked between his legs, the hapless hound grudgingly complied. I’d barely shut the door to my room before lacing into him. “How could you do that?”
“Do what?” he asked, all innocence and ignorance, one ear pointed up, the other flopped over.
“How could you pass the Public Access Test? We had a deal!”
“Which test was that?” Rex used the exact expression of confusion I’d taught him only yesterday.
I pinned him with a demonic stare. “The one you took this morning. I specifically told you not to follow commands. Why did you disobey me?”
I swear Rex shrugged his shoulder blades. “I have a natural instinct to want to please. And it was for LuLu. I like her so much!” His tail started to wag, but thought better of it.
“Did she have a treat in her hand during the test?” I asked suspiciously.
“They were on the desk behind her. I knew I’d get one,” he confessed.
“Rex, we had a deal! I told you about the turkey carcass! Instead you sold me out for a Snausage?”
“It was a Yummy Chummy Bacon Bit, but that’s not the point. Dogs live in the moment, Stacey. We don’t think about something that’s coming later.”
“But, Rex, you’re not a dog. I mean, you’re not just a dog.”
“I’m not?” There was that confused look again, tilting his snout to the side, pendulum-like.
I was exasperated. I knelt to his level and cradled his head in my hands, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t you get it? They’re going to send you to live with someone else.”
Rex wiggled away from me. “Don’t be silly, Tracey! This is you and me! We’ll always be together.”
No, we won’t. Not unless I can figure some way out of this mess.
I spent the rest of the night racking my brain to think of a way to keep Rex. ’Cause no matter where he was “supposed” to go, or whom he was slated to be paired with … well, he just wasn’t. No way was Rex abandoning me. Not him, too. Only … nothing I could think of was even halfway plausible—not enough to get Rex’s “flying colors” scores knocked down, or disqualify him altogether. There was no way to guarantee his continued presence in my life, to make sure he didn’t leave.
Except the one I kept coming back to. It meant relying on Regan. An oxymoron if ever there was one.
My sister was in the car, about to back out of our driveway, when I swung into the passenger seat. “Mom said you’re going to Whole Foods. I’ll come with.”
“Suit yourself, Armani.” Regan, in high spirits, peeled down the street.
“Listen,” I said, buckling myself in, “I need to talk to you.”
“Articulate.”
“Where’d you get that word from?” I asked, momentarily distracted.
“I got it off a tweet. And I’m sure I heard you use it.”
“Perfect segue,” I said.
“Segway? The scooter?” Her smooth brow wrinkled a tad.
I closed my eyes. I’d better be prepared to help her a lot in senior year—a sterling college application was one thing, her grades would also be taken into account. I drew a breath and patiently explained. “I need a favor from you.”
She waved dismissively. “Obviousity.”
“Huh?”
“A new word. I made it up.” It takes so little for Regan to be proud of herself.
“It’s a pretty big favor,” I warned her. “This is me, being selfish.”
Her laughter unnerved me. “You don’t have a selfish bone in your body.”
“Yeah, I do. Although,” I quickly amended, “this is for all of us. Our family.”
Not the talking part.
And not about how I think he might be, in some bizarre way that defies explanation or sense, channeling the spirit of our dad … if not his actual reincarnation.
I simply told Regan that we needed to pull Rex out of the Canine Connections program. That she just had to trust me. He could not leave us.
Then I sat ramrod straight, hands in my lap, ready to counter any argument she could come up with. I’d thought them all through and had my rebuttals ready. In my mind, our conversation went like this:
Regan: But what about my essay? He has to help a disabled person.
Me: Your essay will rock. Trust me. Plus, they’ll never check up.
Regan: What if they do?
Me: Work with me, Regan.
Regan: I don’t understand—remind me—why aren’t we letting Rex do what you trained him to do?
Me: We are—eventually. I’m not ready to let him go. He’s helping me, just like you said. I’m going out more—
This entire dialogue was running in my head like a scroll at the bottom of a screen, so Regan had to repeat herself before I heard what she actually said.
“No problem?” I repeated, dumbly.
“Grace, you talked me into adopting him. You trained him. If you want to put the brakes on”—for emphasis, she tapped the brake—“if you don’t want him in the program, he’s out. Simple.”
Had my head hit the windshield? Did I suffer a concussion? Regan was putting my needs before her own? Who was this sweet, generous soul at the wheel and what had she done with my it’s-all-about-me sister?
As if in answer, Regan smashed her foot down on the gas pedal and we vaulted forward, weaving in and out of traffic. “Like I said, Grace, you did all the work—it’s your decision. I’ll not only support you, I’ll handle Mom, too.”
“For real?” I was totally suspect.
“For reals.”
“What do I have to do in return? What’s the favor you need?”
Her bare bronzed shoulders contracted and relaxed. “Nothing.”
It made no sense. Unless … Regan, too, in some spiritual, soul-deep way, knew about Rex, who he really was, or might be? Was that even possible? At this point, I was willing to believe anything.
I should have felt triumphant. Instead, I trailed Regan through the wide colorful aisles of Whole Foods awash in confusion, splashed with fear and guilt. What was that about?