The sidewalk is sausage-sizzling hot under my paw pads. The traffic on the road next to us is full of green and orange and blue and red and yellow and silver noises and reminds me of Analise. Horns honk and sirens warn and engines rev and all of it together is too much flavor and it makes my nervous stomach churn.
We’re headed to take the certification test again.
Nervousness tastes like pigeon feathers.
“I don’t understand why I can’t walk her through the test,” Colonel Victor says in chisel-sharp words. “She’s my service dog.”
“That’s exactly why you can’t administer the test,” Alex says. His words today are flat and black like tire marks. “You’re biased.”
Not in a positive way, I chime in.
Micah scuffs his feet on the sidewalk next to me, and the noise makes me itchy because it sounds like fleabites. His ear muzzles cover his ears again, and for once, I’m jealous of them, because then I wouldn’t have to suffer this clatter.
“It’s ridiculous,” the Colonel says. “Miss Daisy doesn’t need to be certified.”
He doesn’t think I can pass this test. I might agree with him. Doubt tastes like heartworm medicine.
“She does if you want the VA to cover her bills,” Alex says.
Alex, go play in that traffic.
“The VA is a pile of . . .” The Colonel’s heart rushes. He leaves that sentence hanging there, but there are very few things that pile, and almost all of them stink.
The Colonel grits his teeth. I can tell by the twist of shadows on his face that his stomach is knotted just like mine.
Alex natters on about the test, using long-legged, spidery words like proficient and competent and pliable.
All of it, together, is too much. I’m feeling dizzy, tail-chasing dizzy, when I hear it:
BeepBeepBEEP.
It’s a sneaky, snaky sound that creeps like black ink under all the other sounds.
BeepBeepBEEP.
It gets louder. The Colonel seems to sense it, too, because his heart explodes and his eyes glass over, full of milky ghosts.
BeepBeepBEEP.
We’re approaching a crosswalk. Alex swings his arms around grandly, chattering. A stupid squirrel. He doesn’t notice.
I dig in.
I sit on that scalding-hot sidewalk, roasting my rear end.
“Walk, Daisy!” Alex orders.
The leash yanks my neck, and I gag.
BeepBeepBEEP.
“Walk, Daisy!” Alex shouts at me. It sounds like he’s underwater.
I disobey.
Alex’s words from early in our training burn in my mind: There’s a difference between a smart dog and an obedient dog, and for this job, we need an obedient dog.
“Walk, Daisy!”
I disobey.
The Colonel is shaking now, a full-body no.
Micah plants himself, too. Grabs his dad’s arm. He’s brave to touch his dad when the Colonel is out of sync.
BeepBeepBROOOOOOOOWWWWWWW.
A truck roars past in reverse, cutting the corner too quickly. The wind it creates as it whooshes by us is full of sewer stink.
Alex’s eyes widen. “That was . . .” His voice catches in his throat.
“Close.” Micah says. He pulls his arm away from the Colonel like he’s touched something boiling hot. Micah is shaking, and his eyes are wide, his breathing short and shallow.
I know those signs.
I can help.
I step forward, nudge Micah’s knee with my cold nose. I rub the side of my head, my torn ear, on his leg. I lean on him, my ribs against his shin.
He lays his fingertips on my head. His heart slows, his breathing deepens.
He bends down. Looks me directly in the eye.
When humans look dogs directly in the eye, their souls soften.
Both souls.
“You heard that truck, didn’t you?” he whispers.
Yes. I’m panting now. And so did you.
Smaug’s voice is now in my mind: Listen closer to Micah. You’re missing the big clue.
The ear muzzles.
Micah’s ear muzzles don’t make squeaky music noises like that jogger girl’s did. His ear muzzles are always, always, completely quiet. And the Colonel and Anna and Alex and other tall humans talk about all sorts of things once he puts them over his ears.
Micah doesn’t wear ear muzzles to listen to other things.
Micah wears ear muzzles to listen to now.
He doesn’t turn music on. The others think he does, and then they talk about all sorts of tall human things. He’s tricked them so he can know what’s going on. The ear muzzles are useful.
I am so confused. So dizzy. My throat hurts from the yanked leash and my butt hurts from the hot sidewalk and my head hurts from these windy humans.
My stomach lurches. Once, twice, three times.
I vomit.
I fail the test.
Again.
The Colonel is so tired he doesn’t even scowl at me.
Alex is so upset he doesn’t even smirk at me.
Micah is so suspicious he doesn’t take his eyes off me.
Micah knows.
He knows I failed the test on purpose.
There are no scent maps with this pack. I don’t understand them. And if I don’t understand, how can I help? How can I be a useful part of it?
I try my hardest to be useful, and it’s wrong. I make a mistake, and it’s right. Lizards and knives and ear-muzzle lies confuse me. And any good choice I make outside the test doesn’t count. Humans and numbers and tests! So little faith in instinct! How do they possibly survive thinking so often with their brains and so rarely with their hearts?
Colonel Victor and I are like two pups from the same litter: we’ve both lost dear members of our pack. We’re both fighters who don’t want to fight anymore. And now I’ve even destroyed his belief in second chances. Destroying things is worse than uselessness. That makes me even worse than before.
There’s a difference between a smart dog and an obedient dog, and for this job, we need an obedient dog.
I knew I had to fail the test when I disobeyed Alex at the crosswalk. He wants a mushy, pliable dog, not one that disobeys when he says walk.
I am not an obedient dog.
So I failed the test on purpose.
Micah stood up for me, fought for one more chance for me, but I can’t do it. I threw his chance away like garbage.