Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog (5 page)

Led by Owl, Beau and the heron dragged the netted infant along a moss-covered trail near the shoreline. The trio came as close to the two-story house as they dared, stopping outside a circle of mowed grass.

Plopping drops of rain now fell on the baby’s face. The root dropped out of her mouth, and she began to cry.

King, Queen, and Owl flew off, but Beau backed into the bushes.

In the house, a light came on. The front door opened. A slight, blond woman stood in the doorway. When she saw the baby, the woman brought her hands to her face, and then dashed to where the naked infant lay.

His heart full of sadness—foreign, yet familiar—Beau returned to his den. But he couldn’t get the baby out of his mind. And so, at sunrise the next morning, he returned to the human’s house, where he dug a burrow in the base of a huge woodpile.

The girl, who was named McKenna Skye, would move often. But wherever McKenna went—no
matter how many different adults she lived with—Beau followed, bound by a loyalty he neither understood nor questioned.

Wherever McKenna was, that was home. Kindred spirits are like that.

For twelve years, Beau was the girl’s ever-present shadow. Beau kept his distance, never sure if McKenna realized the strength of their bond, or the depth of his love.

And then, on another night when the moon was golden and full, McKenna Skye yelled into the shadows, “Hey, fox! I’m leaving! For good! Are you coming or not?”

And, once again, Beau followed.

One afternoon, about a week after he washed ashore, Tango lay sleeping on a pastel blanket that lined a crate next to the rocking chair where Augusta knitted.

The
creak-creak-creak
of the rockers kept time with the
click-click-click
of Augusta’s needles. The
coo-coo
of the tiny bird that lived inside Augusta’s wooden clock reminded Tango how slowly the hours were passing. Whenever he opened his eyes, it seemed to be raining.

He didn’t know where he was, except that he was on an island, he’d overheard Augusta say.
An island? Like Manhattan?
Tango wondered.

Tango recalled little of that thick-clouded, rain-thrashed night when a giant wave swept him off Diego’s sailboat into the sea. What he did recall made his teeth chatter and his limbs shake.

Now when he heard Augusta say, “All he does is sleep,” Tango stirred.

The man, the veterinarian Jack Tucker, was smiling down on him. “How’s his appetite?”

“Getting better,” answered Augusta.

At first, Tango had licked drops of water off Augusta’s fingers. Then she fed him sips of broth from an eye dropper and, after that, a beef-flavored paste on a tiny silver spoon. Earlier that day, Augusta had given him bits of chicken.

“It’s time to check the little guy’s stitches. How are they holding up?”

“How am I holding up is the question,” Augusta replied. “I may have bitten off more than I can chew. Taking care of an injured dog is a full-time job.”

Jack pulled back the corner of Tango’s stained, foul-smelling blanket.

“I should’ve washed it, but when I try, he holds it in his teeth and growls.”

Jack lifted Tango and his blanket and laid the bundle on Augusta’s bed.

Tango moaned.

“Sorry, little buddy.”

With gentle fingers, Jack pressed Tango’s muscles and bones, gauging Tango’s reaction. Tango winced, but didn’t squeal.

“So, what are you going to name him?” asked Jack.

“Why, I’m not,” said Augusta.

“The dog has to have a name.”

She can’t name me! I have a name.

“Well, I’m not going to,” said Augusta curtly. “Soon as I do, somebody or other will show up in Victoria looking for their dog—and then what?”

A ray of hope poked Tango’s heart. Augusta believed that Marcellina would come looking for him. Soon! Maybe even today! Tango imagined his glowing, appreciative mistress showering Augusta with fistfuls of green dollars—and how the two of them would drive off in a stretch limousine.

Jack pointed at the sheets of newspaper spread under Tango’s makeshift bed. “Have you checked the lost-and-found ads?”

“Um, yes, I intend to, but …”

“I can save you the trouble,” Jack interrupted. “The only lost dog on the whole island is a black lab.”

Tango’s brief bubble of hope burst.

“So, what
are
you going to name him?”

Anger rippled across Tango’s tender skin.

I have a name! My name is Tango! It’s right on my name tag …

Suddenly it hit him: his silver heart, his silver collar—they were gone!

If Augusta had Tango’s identification tag, Tango realized, she’d know his name. She’d know that he
belonged to Marcellina LaTour, who lived in Manhattan.

Where could his heart and collar be?

Dejected, Tango answered his own question: at the bottom of the sea.

He buried his snout between his paws, feeling stranded, lonely, and forgotten.

Augusta folded her arms across her chest. “Even if no one comes around asking for him, who’s to say I’ll even keep him? He’d be a nuisance to have around the shop.”

What kind of shop would he be a nuisance around? Tango liked shops. Besides, Marcellina never once accused him of being a nuisance, and they went shopping all the time—nearly every day.

“Here, I’ve got something to show you.” Jack placed a glossy piece of paper in Augusta’s hand. “See. I was right. He’s a Yorkshire Terrier.”

Tango wished he could see the picture.

“But this dog doesn’t have long hair like
that,
” she said. “His hair is short.”

“Probably means that he wasn’t a show dog,” Jack said. “This is how some folks fix these critters up. Ribbons, bows, perfume—the works.”

“Well, even if I were to keep him, I certainly wouldn’t let him run around the village looking like an old mop. Why, it’d be bad for business.”

Jack Tucker laughed. “You could call him Mopsy—you know, Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, and…”

“Nope—I’m not ready,” said Augusta. “ ‘Pup’ will do for now.”

Pup?
Tango groaned.
She can’t call me Pup!
Pup was such a silly, insignificant name.

Once, he remembered, he’d felt the same way about the name Tango.

Tango. Like the dance.

Tango burrowed his face in the pastel blanket and breathed in the smell of his own sickness. His misery simmered. If this is the way it was, Tango didn’t want to go on living.

Feed him to the fish!
He didn’t care.

The southeast corner of Augusta Smith’s backyard met the northwest corner of Big Bart Cody’s property. Augusta’s yard was square, bound by a white picket fence, and bordered with tulips, daffodils, and lilacs anxious to bloom. An ancient oak tree, tall and regal, with deep roots, stood in the center.

On a good drying day, sunny, with a crisp wind cutting across Victoria Bay, McKenna heard the
flap-snap-crack
of bed sheets on Miss Gustie’s clothesline. She balanced her brush on the rim of a can of butter yellow paint, stood up, and stretched.

Painting the trim on her shed was a lot harder, she realized, than rolling sea green paint up and down its walls.

A petite face—not unlike that of a fox cub—was framed between the pickets of Miss Gustie’s fence. The furry face had a black nose and two dark eyes
not much bigger than buttons. It must be the little dog Miss Gustie had rescued at the beach a couple of weeks ago.

McKenna was surprised to see the dog outside. She’d heard that he was taking a long time to heal. Doc Tucker was over to Miss Gustie’s place so often, people were beginning to talk about a romance between them.

McKenna felt sorry for the little guy—away from home, taken in by a stranger.

A few feet from the dog, McKenna crouched low to the ground, urging him to sniff her fingers. From over the fence, she heard a gruff voice.

“Why aren’t you in school, young lady?”

The little dog disappeared. Miss Gustie’s hands appeared on the pointed ends of the pickets.

“I don’t have to go to school if I don’t want to,” McKenna answered. “And… I don’t want to.”

Miss Gustie gave McKenna the once-over, from the tips of her boots to the part in the center of her hair. “How old are you, if I may ask?”

McKenna dropped her chin. “Um … uh … almost sixteen.”

“No, you’re twelve, thirteen at most,” observed the grizzly haired woman. “You belong in school.”

McKenna didn’t argue. Miss Gustie, she’d heard, used to be a teacher, and teachers, well—they always thought they knew what was best for you.

“What’s Bart Cody thinking, harboring a truant, for heaven’s sake?” Miss Gustie pursed her lips. “He ought to know better …”

The wind picked up. The sheets somersaulted over Miss Gustie’s clothesline with a
smack!

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Uncle Bart says the school year’s almost over. He figures that once the lobstermen take to the boats, teachers don’t teach much anyways. He said I’ll learn plenty, fixing up the shed.”

Miss Gustie rolled her eyes. “That may be the case where the Codys are from, but not around here.”

“Anyways, I’ve got work to do. Tourists will be showing up any day now. I’ve got to get my stuff ready.”

Miss Gustie’s tone of voice changed: more curious than scolding. “Stuff? What kind of stuff?” She extended her hand. “Oh, by the way, I’m Augusta Smith. We’ve not been introduced.”

“I know who you are.” McKenna meant to shake Miss Gustie’s hand, but stopped when she realized that her fingers were spotted with wet paint.

“And you are… I mean, besides being Big Bart’s niece?”

“McKenna. McKenna Skye.” She scanned Miss Gustie’s yard, wondering where the little dog went. “So, what did you name your dog?”

“I haven’t.”

“You haven’t?”

“He’s not my dog,” answered Miss Gustie emphatically. “I call him Pup. Good enough for now—until his people come for him.”

His people weren’t going to come for him, McKenna thought. No more than her real mother ever came back for her.

With his nose to the ground, the little dog was zigzagging toward the back door.

“Doesn’t care to be outside, much less relieve himself out here,” Miss Gustie made clear. “Clings to an old blanket I wrapped him in the first day. Half the time, he seems scared out of his skin.”

“Can I see him? Up close, I mean.”

“Why, um, certainly….”

Miss Gustie lifted the latch and opened the gate. The dog was pressing his front paws against the back door. Miss Gustie picked him up and carried him back to where McKenna was standing.

Since the first day of lobster fishing season, McKenna had been checking the “Lost and Found” section in
The Charlottetown Guardian.
If Miss Gustie really wanted the little dog’s people to come, why hadn’t she placed an ad?

Miss Gustie lightly ran her finger over the stitches on his thigh. “He’s pretty banged up.”

“Looks like he needs a bath.” McKenna stroked
the dog’s snout with a clean finger. “But he sure is cute. His people must be pretty upset, losing a nice little dog like this.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“If he were mine, I’d be checking the lost-and-found ads every day.”

Miss Gustie flinched. Her face reddened. “Why, yes, indeed.”

Miss Gustie glanced at McKenna’s shed. “And, uh, well—I don’t mean to pry, mind you—but why are you fixing up that old shed?”

“I was thinking I might set up a little shop,” McKenna said.

“And what do you plan to sell?”

“Candles,” McKenna blurted, surprised by how easily her secret spilled out.

“Candles? What kind of candles?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

Propped against the trunk of a weeping willow was a piece of wood. The board’s irregular shape was not unlike the shape of Prince Edward Island—the way, on a map, the island looked like a cradle rocking in the sea.

The butter yellow paint was already dry. Allowing a little pride to sneak into her voice, McKenna explained, “I need to paint inside the grooves. The letters will be rose-colored, easier to see.”

“Enchanted candles?” Miss Gustie’s eyes narrowed. “
Magic
candles? Is that what you mean?”

McKenna shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know if the candles were magic or not, but she meant to find out. If they were, she’d make a fortune!

“I like the way ‘enchanted candles’ sounds.”

Miss Gustie raised her eyebrow. “I certainly hope you aren’t into that voodoo-vampire stuff I read about in the papers nowadays. People in the village won’t tolerate that type of foolishness.”

“Uncle Bart said I could stay the summer if I could pay my own way. Candles can’t be that hard to make.”

“Enchanted candles,” repeated Miss Gustie skeptically.

Nestled in Miss Gustie’s arms, the dog whimpered. Short black Whiskers sprouted from the caramel-colored hair on his cheeks.

If he were my dog, McKenna thought, I’d name him Rusty, or Whiskers.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Skye—do you have other family here on the island?” Miss Gustie rubbed her chin. “I don’t believe I’ve heard the name Skye before.”