How to Look for a Lost Dog (7 page)

We both have to pee.

My father closes the door to my room, so Rain and I lie in the darkness. I can see a strip of light under my door and hear the sounds of the Weather Channel.

I can't fall asleep, even with my hand resting on Rain's sleek back.

The wind grows louder and louder. It's as loud as a train. Rain whimpers.

The television sounds disappear and then the strip of light dims, which is how I know my father has gone to bed.

The rain falls harder until it's thundering on our roof. Beside me, Rain begins to shake.

In (inn) the yard the trees creak (creek) and crack. Branches snap off.

Something heavy blows against my window. It makes a bang and I grab Rain, but the window doesn't break (brake).

I get out of bed and tiptoe to the door. I open it and listen. Nothing but (butt) storm sounds. I peer (pier) around the corner at my father's door. It's closed. No light shines underneath.

I go back to bed, leaving my door open.

My clock says 11.34 p.m. when I hear (here) a tree crash down in our front yard.

It says 1.53 a.m. when a violent gust of wind hurls something against our (hour) front door, and I wonder what we left outside. Rain shakes until the bed vibrates.

The clock says 3.10 a.m. when I hear a ferocious crack from somewhere, maybe the street, and then my clock blinks off and all the humming sounds in the house come to a stop.

Our power has gone out.

I hug Rain as tightly as possible and finally I fall asleep.

When I awaken there's dim light seeping around my window shades. The house is quiet. The storm must be nearly over.

Rain is not in my room.

On our kitchen counter is a clock that is not electric. It's round and blue, and on the face is a drawing of an ocean wave. Above the wave are the words
Atlantic City
. The morning after the storm, I tiptoe out of my bedroom and into the very quiet kitchen. The first thing I look at is the clock. The hands are pointing to 8.05. Next I turn around to see if my father's door is open. It is not. I pick up our phone and listen for a dialling tone. Nothing. I press a few buttons. Still nothing. We have no electricity and no telephone.

I walk to the window in the living room and look outside. The day is very dark and wet. Rain is still falling, but gently, as if it might stop soon. The leaves on the trees are fluttering a little, but the wind is not roaring like it was during the night.

In our yard two trees have fallen, the birch and the elm. The birch tree came up by its roots. The tips of its branches are resting on the porch roof. The elm tree snapped just above the ground. It fell in the other direction, across the road, and took the power lines with it. Also, one of our oak trees split down the middle, and the top part snapped off another. There are branches and leaves everywhere I look.

I peer sideways over to the driveway, which is covered with branches and leaves like everything else, and follow it to the road.

I draw my breath in tight. I realize that I can see the stream that runs alongside Hud. This is the first time I've been able to see the water from so far away. As I mentioned in “Chapter 15: Where We Live”, there has never been more than 10.5 inches of water in the stream. But now the water is so deep that it's flowed over its banks and flooded both the road and the lower part of our yard. It's rushing along fast and hard and swollen like a river, and it couldn't fit under our bridge, so it roared over it. The bottom of our drive has washed away. Sturdy pieces of timber are breaking apart and hurtling down Hud.

We are stuck on our property. Even after the water recedes, the stream will still be there, with no driveway bridging it. I turn around, wondering whether it's okay to wake my father. I want to ask him about the bridge and hear (here) his thoughts on being stranded.

I'm about to knock on his door when I realize that I haven't seen (scene) Rain. She's not in the kitchen or the living room. I go back to my room and look under my bed. Sometimes Rain hides there if she gets scared.

No Rain.

I check the bathroom.

No Rain.

I look in the kitchen and living room once more.

“Rain?” I call. “Rain?”

Nothing.

I call louder. “
Rain?
”

Suddenly the door to my father's room bursts open.

“Rose, quit yelling. I let Rain outside. She had to pee.”

“You let her outside? When?”

“I don't know. A while ago.”

“Did you let her back in?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because it was
early
. I went back to sleep. She's probably on the porch.”

I forget about the trees and the water and the driveway and being stranded. I fling open the front door.

The porch is wet. Everything is dripping, and the couch is soaked.

Rain is not there. I call her name again. Then I step onto the porch in my bare feet. I stand at the top of the steps and call, “Rain! Rain! Rain! Rain!” into the grey morning.

The only sound I hear is dripping.

I begin to breathe very fast.

I think this is a sign of panic.

“Two, three, five, seven, eleven,” I say. “Two, three, five, seven, eleven.”

I sit in a chair at the kitchen table.

Something has happened to Rain.

My father let her outside and she didn't come back.

This is not like her.

She may be lost.

I stand at the window again and gaze out at the rushing water, at the fallen trees, at the bottom of our yard that now looks like a pond.

“Find her?”

I jump. I turn around to see my father. He's standing in the doorway to his bedroom wearing an undershirt and boxer shorts.

“What time did you let her out?” I ask.

“Does that mean you didn't find her?”

“She doesn't come when I call.”

“Why can't you just answer me? Say, ‘No, I didn't find her'.”

“No, I didn't find her. What time did you let her out?”

My father scratches his neck and sits at the kitchen table. “Power's out,” he says. “Phone too?”

“I have to answer your questions, but you don't have to answer mine?”

I see a mean little smile on my father's mouth, but all he says is, “Seven fifteen.”

Seven and one and five add up to thirteen, which is a prime number, but in this case I don't think it's a good thing. “She's been gone for over an hour,” I reply.

“Now you answer my question. Is the phone out too?”

“Yes. Why didn't you watch Rain when she went outside?”

“Rose.”

“But why didn't you?”

“Rose, you're driving me crazy.”

“Well, why didn't you wake me up?”

“What? When Rain went out? I don't know. Because we always let her out by herself and she always comes back to the porch.”

“She hasn't been out during a storm before.”

“Did you eat breakfast yet?”

“I was looking for Rain.”

“Did. You. Eat. Breakfast. Yet.”

“No.”

My father starts pulling out supplies. He sets paper bowls and paper cups on the table, a box of cereal, and milk from the fridge, which is dark inside. “The milk is still okay,” he says, sniffing it.

I walk from the window to the table and back to the window. I open the front door. I call, “Rain!
Rain!
”

“Breakfast is ready,” says my father.

“Rain is missing.” I step back inside.

My father goes to the window. “What a mess,” he says.

“The bridge over the driveway washed away,” I tell him. “We're stuck here.”

“Damn.”

“I wish we could call Uncle Weldon.”

“What's he going to do?”

“Help me look for Rain. Why didn't you watch her when she went out?”

“I've already answered that question, Rose. Now let's eat.”

I stand at the window. I pace into my bedroom and back to the kitchen. “Why didn't you check to see if she came back?”

My father slams his hand on the table and the carton of milk jumps. He looks at the Atlantic City clock. “It's 8.30,” he says, “and already I've had it with you.”

8.30 a.m. is when my father has had it with me, and also when I notice that Rain's collar is hanging on the doorknob. That's where I left it last night, before my father made Rain and me go to bed without peeing.

Rain is lost outside and she isn't wearing her collar.

She has no identification.

My father is the one who let her out. That's why I'm mad at him.

All dogs have smart noses, but Rain's must be especially smart. I think of the day she followed me through the hallways at school until she found me in Mrs Kushel's room. Her nose had to sort through the smells of dozens of kids and teachers, and choose just mine to track.

I remember Parvani saying, “You're so lucky, Rose.” She meant lucky to have Rain, a dog with such a smart nose.

I can't eat the cereal my father gets for me. I leave the table and stand at the front door again.

“A watched pot never boils,” says my father. He slurps some cereal and washes it down with warm Coke from a can.

“What?” I say.

“Never heard that expression? It means…” My father pauses. “It means, well, it means don't keep standing there. Rain will come back when she's ready.”

I turn around to face my father. “Rain has a smart nose,” I tell him.

“Unh.”

“She does. Even if she got turned around in the storm her nose will help her find her way home.”

“Okay then. Come eat your breakfast.”

The day is long and dark. The rain stops falling and the wind stops blowing, but the sun doesn't come out. Our house is cold. My father puts on trousers and a flannel shirt. He makes a fire in the woodstove. I think I would feel warmer if Rain were here.

After breakfast I ask if I can go outside and search for Rain.

My father stands on the front porch and considers this. At last he says, “You can go outside, but don't leave our yard. There are power lines down and you could electrocute yourself. Don't go near any wires, and don't go near any water either. You have no idea how powerful rushing water is.”

“Could Rain swim in it?” I ask.

“In rushing water? Probably not.”

I walk all around our yard. I call, “Rain! Rain! Rain!” I have to step over branches and climb over the fallen trees.

No sign of Rain.

I walk down the slope towards Hud Road, but stop when I reach the water. The water in our yard is not moving fast, but I don't know how deep it is. The water by the road is moving fast. It's rushing, just like my father said. I throw a branch in and it disappears immediately. I don't see it again.

I call for Rain, but the water is so loud I can barely hear my voice.

I go back inside. My father is sitting at the kitchen table trying to tune the battery-powered radio.

“Piece of junk,” he mutters, just before a voice comes booming into the room.

“It works,” I say, and then remember my father's sarcasm remark about being observant. I wait for him to say something, but he just keeps fiddling with the knobs.

Finally he tunes into a weather alert about a flood warning.

“What a surprise,” says my father. “A flood warning.”

This sarcasm is directed at the radio.

For lunch we each eat a banana and an untoasted bagel with peanut butter. Then my father says, “Might as well begin cleaning up the yard. There's nothing else to do.”

“I wish we could talk to Uncle Weldon,” I say.

“Well, we can't. The phone doesn't work and the roads aren't passable.”

We work in the yard all afternoon. By the time the light fades, most of the branches have been piled up to use for kindling when they dry out. The trees will be cut up later with power saws.

My father starts to walk towards our dark house. I stand in the yard for a moment and look all around. Maybe I will see Rain's eyes shining in the last of the daylight. I stare and stare (stair and stair).

Nothing.

I have trouble sleeping that night. I lie in bed and think about Rain. I get up five times and check the front porch to see if she's followed her nose home. But I don't see her.

Finally I fall asleep. I don't wake up until morning, when my father knocks on my door. He steps inside and says, “School is going to be closed indefinitely.” He's carrying the battery-powered radio.

“Is Rain on the porch?” I ask.

My father sighs. “No.”

“What are we going to do today?”

He gestures out the window. “Sun is shining. It's a little warmer. We can work in the yard again.”

“Okay. How long do you think indefinitely is?”

My father shakes his head. “Rose, indefinitely is indefinitely. It means they don't know.”

So indefinitely implies uncertainty. I don't like uncertainty.

“Couldn't someone make a guess?” I ask. “I really need to know.”

“Sorry. You're going to have to wait.” My father holds out the radio. “I've been listening to the news,” he says. “The power is out everywhere. Millions of people are in the dark.
Millions
. It could take weeks to restore it. And your school won't open until the power is back.”

But I need my routine.

Most of all I need Rain.

My father and I eat dry cereal and crackers with peanut butter for breakfast. Then we step into our yard again. My father looks at the fallen trees. I walk towards Hud and look at the water. It seems a little lower in our yard. But all around me I can still hear a loud whooshing sound. Whooshing and roaring. The little brooks have become streams and the streams have become rivers. I can imagine that if they washed away our bridge, they washed away other things. Bigger things and smaller things. Houses maybe, and all kinds of living creatures.