Night stretched into day, homework into late-night TV, sleep into wakefulness. By the minute, my stomach twisted into more knots. Several times a day, I’d ask, “Are you sick, Rex? Should we go to the vet?” Even as I asked, it was clear the dog was as healthy as he’d ever been. He hoovered his food, begged for more. He was playful, emotive, and vocal even. Just not with words.
I was completely over-the-top obsessing about Rex. It’d been days—days!—and the dog still hadn’t uttered one word. He didn’t respond to my entreaties or fistfuls of treats, my pouts or shouts. The irony was inescapable. A dog not talking made less sense to me than the other way around.
In spite of that, I was having banner days in school. I’d scraped by in math, rocked science, and met Mr. Kassan’s great expectations with my essay on The Pigman & Me. The teacher was all over it, even posted it on the bulletin board with a chunky A+ stamped at the top. Best of all, the language arts teacher didn’t ruin it by saying something cheesy like “Guess you were ready.”
It was only at the final bell on one random Tuesday that I realized I hadn’t thought about my dad all day long. It felt weird, but not betrayal-weird. Honestly, I was more concerned about Rex.
Plus, I’d yet to tell LuLu of my plans. Training was over and Canine Connections was closed until September. The staff was probably occupied now that the recipients were there for their orientation and training. I could have left a voice mail, but that felt wrong. If I was definite about pulling Rex from the program, I wanted to take the dog over there, thank her for everything.
Maybe I wanted her to say that keeping him was okay.
Time was running out. I’d have to reach her before Sunday, the big graduation ceremony when the pairings were announced. It wouldn’t be fair to promise Rex to a new family.
This family needed him. I needed him to talk! I started sounding like Annie Sullivan, trying to coax a word out of Helen Keller, or my French teacher, tirelessly repeating proper pronunciation. I got down to his level and slowly said things he associated with yummy-ness, like “Snausage.” Or “Pup-Peroni.” Or “I love you.”
Another time, I went into scolding-mommy mode.
I swore I’d withhold treats until he told me—in words—that he wanted some. Rex reacted by snatching the Scooby Snack out of my hand.
I told him he wasn’t allowed on the bed until he asked properly. The disobedient dog jumped up anyway.
I threatened him with not getting up early to walk him—unless he woke me verbally. He blithely let himself out. He had been trained, after all, to open doors.
Finally, I tried to scare him into talking.
I warned him that I’d go ahead and send him off with another family unless he talked. Rex reacted by displaying his normal over-the-top good nature.
Then I got really desperate. I said I wasn’t petting him anymore. And that he was banned from my room. I’d kick him out if he tried. I’d lock the door.
Not even those dire threats worked. He rolled over on his back, waiting for me to rub his tummy. It was too hard not to.
When he still hadn’t uttered a word by Saturday night, I lied spectacularly, and shouted that if he didn’t say anything, I might have to stop loving him. Hearing those words coming out of my mouth, and still not one from Rex, tripped a switch in me. I went on a rant, like the crazy person I used to think I was. It went something like this: “What’s wrong with you? Why are you doing this to me? Are you punishing me? I can’t believe you’d be so selfish! After all we did for you! I hate you!!” That last bit came with major sobbing.
And banging on the door.
“You want to dial it down, sister?” Regan demanded as she stormed in. “I’m trying to concentrate.”
“On what, yourself?”
“Oooh, back to your usual sarcastic self, I see. If you must know, I’m creating a new fashion.” Regan started to describe it, but I cut her off.
“You don’t understand. Something’s wrong with Rex!”
My sister shifted her gaze to the pooch, whose eyes shone and tail wagged happily. She grabbed the softball and tossed it onto my bed. In a microsecond, Rex leaped up and brought it back to her.
“Seems fine to me,” she said. “He’s acting like a dog.”
“That’s just the problem!” My voice was strained, loud. “He’s not just a dog!”
“Well, I know that,” Regan said.
“You do?” Was she about to tell me something … huge? Was it too much to hope that Regan understood about Rex? That’s why she agreed to let him stay?
“You’re not just any dog, are you, Rex?” Regan cooed. “You’re not cute, but it’s like the way designers see their fashions, like their babies. Other people might think they’re ugly, but to the person who created them, they’re beautiful.”
I thought my head would explode, but my composure was first to go. I was now half screeching, half wailing—all begging. “He talks! Regan, he talks. Really. I’m not crazy. Rex has been talking to me ever since the day at the shelter. That’s why I adopted him. He told me to.” I collapsed onto the floor and waited for it. For Regan to tell me I’m wackadoodle, or be so horrified, to call Mom. Or 911. Or … simply roll her eyes and walk away.
But Regan had not moved. She stood stock-still, arms crossed, shifting her eyes from Rex to me and back again. Almost as if she was taking me seriously.
Regan lowered her whole self onto the carpet and began to gently pet Rex. Something she rarely, if ever, did. At least without complaining that he needed a shampoo, smelled funny, or should go to a doggy spa. Meanwhile, Rex responded to her touch with the sweet sounds of doggy bliss.
Finally Regan turned to me. “Remind me—what’s the problem?”
“The problem,” I whined, “is that he stopped. He stopped talking—completely. It’s been, like, over a week. All he’s done is bark, whimper, and make the sound he’s making now.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?” I asked the obvious question. And before I could stop myself, I dissolved into unpretty sobs.
Regan uncoiled herself, got up, and strode over to my nightstand, where she plucked a tissue out of the box. “Here.” She waved it in my face. “Blow your nose.”
I obeyed.
Then Regan knelt again, this time in front of me. She tucked my hair, which had stuck onto my wet cheek, behind my ear. I looked at her, bewildered.
“Here’s the thing, Grace,” she said carefully. “This dog has always been … I don’t know … like there’s something different about him. But to say he talks? That’s pretty over-the-top, even for you.”
“So you don’t believe me. Why should—”
She cut me off. “I do. I believe that you believe it. That he talked, I mean.”
I croaked, “Why did he stop, then?”
And then Regan said something that broke and healed my heart at the same time.
“Maybe you finally heard what he had to say.”