Field Trip (8 page)

Atticus:
We didn't go for a hike with the boss. I knew we wouldn't. We found a hammock and he took a nap. The boss is old now, and he needs more rest than he used to.

I didn't mind, though; the puppy is at his best when he's asleep.

I didn't nap. I sat underneath the boss to protect them. I might have closed my eyes for a second or two. I'm not so young, either.

Still, I can find my boy when he gets lost.

We're going to keep the muffin girl and her boy and the boy who works for the boss. They'll come to the house a lot and we'll get in the truck and go see them. And my boy will tell me stories about them and try to make me talk to them on the phone.

I wish there were another way to make friends like this that didn't involve bouncing in the van.

At least we didn't get a new puppy this time. That's progress.

Conor:
I SAVED MY BOY!!! I had to pretend to chase a squirrel so Atticus could get to him first. I hope the boss didn't forget he's going to get me a puppy.

After the world's longest night, it's finally morning. We survived the wilderness. Or, in my case, sleeping in the van with farting border collies. We now possess the woods version of street cred. We're stiff and achy and we all smell a little funky, especially Brig, who reeks of vinegar, sour cream and onion potato chips and, I think, dead skunk.

Jacob and Charlotte agree that we surpassed the official field trip in terms of practical learning experiences.

“We are going to make everyone at school crazy with envy.” Charlotte nods.

“If we head back now, we'll have time to get our homework done tonight,” Jacob says. As if that's something to look forward to.

Dad takes the wheel and I sit in the passenger seat. I wonder if we can start feeling more normal, maybe even talk about what happened. What comes next. Although I'm not going to start.

We've been driving for an hour or two on a smaller road; Dad likes to take country roads and back ways when he can. Atticus starts barking, jumping up and down, pawing at the order window, frantic to get out. He's never, ever, not once in my whole life acted like this. I can't remember seeing him so out of control.

Dad laughs and turns to me. “Border collies never forget anything. Ever.” He turns into what looks like a farm and stops.

We get out and hear the world's most wonderful sound: barking dogs. Atticus runs to the enormous fenced-in yard and puts his paws up on the top rung of the fence so he can see better.

I've never seen anything so beautiful. Waves of rolling hills and grass waving in the wind and more dogs than I can count. Black and chocolate and golden Labs, beagles, pugs, Jack Russell terriers, retrievers, spaniels, a majestic-looking Irish setter; old dogs and young dogs; dogs that stand on their back legs at the fence, howling for us to pet them; shy dogs that peek around tree stumps; dogs that bark and yip and bray and howl and sing, begging us to play. It's a dog rescue. It's paradise.

My heart starts to feel warm and light just looking. Jacob and Brig and Charlotte are swept inside the gate by a worker who gives them buckets of dog food and water and points at the food bins scattered around the field. It's breakfast time, and every hand is a helping hand.

“This is where you got Atticus, isn't it?” Dad and I watch Atticus study the dogs running where he used to play.

“Yup. Couldn't think of a better place to find a puppy. C'mon. Let's see who's ready to be rescued.”

Besides me. I hope a puppy will thaw the freeze between me and Dad. I sure don't know how to do it.

Dad heads toward the building marked Office and I follow, Conor at my heels.

This is where the puppies are kept. Dad and I inhale the amazing scent of baby dog.

I look at the row of crates against the wall and about fall over. A miniature Atticus and Conor is staring straight at me. Our eyes lock. Atticus and Conor and I love each other, but I feel totally different than I ever have before when I look in this puppy's bright brown eyes. I can tell he feels the same way about me. What they say about true love is right: you just know.

The puppy starts to wiggle, trying to get to me. It's crazy, I know, but I wish I weren't wearing jeans with a hole in the knee so I could make a good impression on this little guy.

Even though I know better, I unlatch the dog crate without asking. The puppy leaps in my arms. We fit together. I sit on the floor and lean against the wall, holding him on my chest, our cheeks pressed against each other.

A lady wearing a shirt that says
BYE BYE, DEATH ROW—HELLO, LIFE
smiles at me as she walks by with a pile of towels. “Seems like you two were made for each other.”

Brig, Jacob, and Charlotte walk in and stand next to Dad and Conor, watching me meet my puppy.

“What's his name?” I finally ask the rescue lady.

“I call him Puck. His litter all got Shakespearean names.”

“It's a sign,” Jacob says. “You play hockey and his name is Puck.”

The lady nods; then she laughs. Atticus is standing at the door, waiting to be let inside. She pushes open the door and Atticus walks in, leans against her leg, and sighs. She must have been good to him when he was a puppy: he's grateful. I blink away a tear.

“Hello, my friend.” She gets down on her hands and knees to hold his face. “You look good for an old man. I told you he'd take good care of you. I get your Christmas cards every year, so I know you've been well.”

Conor starts yipping, jumping up to try to make me set the smaller version of him down so they can play. Puck barks sharply and Conor drops his butt to the ground.

Dad laughs. “You've got yourself an alpha dog, son. He just let Conor know who's in charge.”

I set Puck down and he touches noses with Conor. Then they both sneeze and Conor tips over.

Atticus groans and turns his face toward the door, as if he can't bear to look.

Dad calls Atticus to his side and ruffles his ears. “You'll see, it'll all work out.”

But Atticus starts bumping his head against Dad's leg, trying to herd him away.

Dad looks down. “I'm telling you—it's all right. I never lie to you—you know that.”

Atticus sighs and slinks over to the two pups. Conor looks nervous. Puck does a double take when he sees Atticus and quivers. But then he fluffs up the fur on his neck, trying to look bigger, and attempts to bark like he did at Conor. It comes out a yip. He looks embarrassed, backs up, scratches the ground like bulls do in the ring, tries again. This bark is better.

Atticus stops dead, blinks, and—I swear—chuckles, heh heh heh. His tail slowly wags and his ears go back as he sniffs the puppy from head to tail. Once he's found Puck acceptable from a smell point of view, he puts his nose in the puppy's ear and snuffles. Atticus-speak for “You'll do.”

Conor has been watching intently. Now he launches himself at Atticus and Puck. He trips, of course, and knocks Puck over. Atticus forgets his dignity, sticks his butt in the air, tail wagging crazily, and barks as the two pups roll around, whining and yipping.

“This really and truly is the best day ever,” Jacob says. We all grin and nod; he's right.

Dad starts to fill out the adoption paperwork while Jacob picks out a red leash and the lady helps Brig make a name tag. Charlotte and I read the ingredients on bags of puppy food and Puck gives some chew toys a test run. Brig hands me an ID tag:
BEN'S BORDER COLLIE.

The lady takes our picture for her Web page. I keep an eye on Atticus while we're posing. He remembers Jacob's advice about his good side and leans forward with his right cheek.

Puck follows Atticus with his eyes; he knows Atticus is top dog. He yips at Conor and snaps at his back legs to keep him in line. Conor doesn't trip as much.

Dad and I take Atticus and Conor and Puck to the field behind the rescue building to play Frisbee before heading home.

Brig and Jacob are in a pen, covered in puppies. Charlotte, of course, has her tablet out. “I'm pairing the rescue people with local schoolkids who need volunteer hours.” She gets cuter every time she has another great idea.

All three guys run off, about twenty-five yards, then turn and face us, dropping their chests to the ground, butts in the air, waiting. Dad flicks the disk in the air; Conor springs up and runs in the wrong direction, happy to bound in circles, barking. Puck sticks close to Atticus, who never takes his eyes off the Frisbee, waiting until the last possible moment to spring into action. He hurtles skyward, snatches the disk out of the air with his teeth, and runs back toward us as soon as his paws hit the ground, the puppy in his wake.

Atticus has never once handed me a ball or a Frisbee. He drops it three or four feet in front of me and then turns and runs as fast as he can to his waiting spot before I can pick it up and throw. No matter how many times you tell him “Bring it here” and hold out your hand, he won't do it. Dad says that we don't make the rules. It's Atticus's world; we just live here.

But Puck barks at Atticus when he does this and Atticus slinks over, picks up the Frisbee, and, for the first time in my life, hands it to me. Then, sulking, he lies down and pretends to nap while Puck and Conor race each other for the Frisbee and keep bringing it back to us. Dad and I flop on either side of Atticus and wait for the puppies to retrieve the Frisbee.

“So,” Dad finally says.

“So.” Here we go. The Talk.

“Your mother found us a house.”

“She did? That's great.” We won't have to kick Brig out of the van so we can sleep there. Whew.

“From the pictures she sent, I can see that it needs to be completely gutted.”

“A lot of work?”

“Yup, it'll be a horrible living situation for a while.”

“Good thing we're already used to that.”

“You know it.” He smiles.

“Why'd she buy a house in that condition, though? We need a break.”

“To show me what it's like when someone makes life-altering family decisions without consulting the family. Kind of like what you did trying out for the hockey academy.”

“Oh.” I glance at him, afraid he'll look mad, but he smiles again.

“I get it now. How the two of you must have felt every time I made another big decision without talking to you first.”

“It's a crummy feeling. On both sides. I know that now.” I'm not going to have any jeans left by the end of this trip if I don't stop picking holes in them when I'm uncomfortable.

“We probably need to instigate a family policy so that doesn't happen again.” Dad pats my shoulder. “You know, let's talk things over. I hear that works for some people.”

“That'd be good.”

Dad looks off. “Ben, I was wrong to decide not to let you go to the hockey academy the way I did, but I still don't think the decision itself was wrong.”

“So the academy is really off the table? There's nothing I can say to change your mind?”

“The thing is—you'll be leaving home in four years anyway. And the academy is just getting started. And I know that any start-up has a lot of bugs to work out. I don't want them working them out on you. Meanwhile, you'll still play hockey. And high school in town could be great.” He nods toward Charlotte on her tablet.

I'm surprised I'm not more bummed. I didn't think anything could mean more to me than hockey. Turns out there's more to life than what happens on the rink.

“Hey, Ben?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“The other reason Mom bought the house is that it's a block away from the rink.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. Mom says you can see the Zamboni snow pile from your bedroom window.”

“That's epic.” The worst hassle about two-a-day practices and all those games has been trying to get rides; this is going to make my life amazing. I'll be able to walk over whenever I want, put in as much extra practice time as the rink has to give me. I'm still on the best travel team. I can go to school with Charlotte and I don't have to leave Puck. Or Atticus and Conor. And Dad and I are talking again.

Dad's not done. “…and I can't say anything until Mom calls back, but trust me; she's working on another plan you're going to like, one we've been talking about for nearly a year now.”

“Mom has a plan?”

“Yeah. How Duffy of her, right?”

“I hope she's better at executing plans than you and I are.”

“So do I, Son; so do I.”