Willow didn’t leave me anything tonight. But I can always count on Zanna to start talking with her hands, and drop a lot of crumbs on the floor.
After both girls leave the room, I scurry out to get those crumbs. I’m under the table when I hear their parents talking.
No one shrieks, A mouse! A mouse! and jumps up on a chair. (Why do they do that, anyway? They’re so big and we’re so small.) They’re too caught up in their conversation to even notice me.
My ears perk up when Willow’s mother asks her father, Are you going to have Roxy put to sleep?
He doesn’t answer right away.
I don’t know, he finally says. I hate to see her like this. When he was a child, he couldn’t stand to see an animal suffer. Once he found a nest of baby mice whose mother was caught by an owl. He brought them in and fed them. When they were big enough, he took them back where he found them and let them go. The way I heard it, all but one survived.
The vet bill for her eyes could be over a thousand dollars, he says.
Her mother answers, Yes, that’s true. We’d go into debt again.
But that’s not how we should decide, her father says. Roxy won’t ever pull a sled again, and I’ve never seen a dog that loves to run like she does. What kind of life will she have?
Her mother thinks about that. Could she be a house dog? Maybe she’d help keep the mice down. (That’s funny—who’s afraid of a blind dog? Roxy would never catch us, even if she could see.)
It’s hard to imagine Roxy being happy as a mouser, her father answers.
Her mother nods. Should we ask Willow to help us decide? she asks.
I don’t think so. She already feels responsible for this, and if we decide to have Roxy put to sleep, I don’t want her to feel responsible for that, too.
They’re both quiet until her mother says, It sounds like you’ve decided.
Her father looks at the floor and doesn’t answer. I keep still. He doesn’t see me.
Willow will not like this.
How can I let her know?
I’m
sitting
in a corner
of the kitchen
after everyone has
gone to bed. Roxy’s finally
asleep. I’m sanding the diamond
willow stick with all my might, working
on one diamond, trying to find its deep-down
center, thinking, What would it be like to be blind?
I hear something … What is it, scuffling under the table
just a few feet away from this chair? I’m completely quiet,
and a brown mouse comes all the way out into the room, stops
and looks right at me. I’m about to tell myself to leave it alone;
it isn’t bothering me—maybe it thinks my sawdust is bread crumbs.
But then it does something odd: it climbs up on the telephone table!
I get up to shoo it away. We don’t like the mice to chew up paper
for their nests, and this one has its feet on a piece of paper.
I pick up the paper, and it runs off. Brave little thing.
It actually tilts its head and looks at me. (Or did I
imagine that?) I glance down at the paper:
Old Fork Veterinary Services.
“Prognosis.” “Options.”
“Probable outcome.”
“Recommendation:
1. Euthanasia…”
Does that mean
what I think
it does?
Here’s
what it says
in the dictionary—
“Euthanasia: 1. The act
of killing a person painlessly
for reasons of mercy. 2. A painless
death.” It says “person” but I bet it means
dogs, too. How do they know it’s painless?
Or merciful? Roxy can’t even talk! How
can someone decide to kill someone else
without asking? Does Roxy get a vote?
Do I? I can’t believe they’re even
thinking about this! How can
I stop them? Come on, Roxy,
you sleep in my room
tonight. I’ll figure
this out in the
morning.
I
know
Dad’s the one
who took Roxy to the vet,
but I bet anything Mom’s in on it.
From the way they don’t look at me
when I bring Roxy back into the kitchen,
I can see they aren’t going to ask my opinion.
I pick up the paper from the vet, wave it at them.
I found this, I tell them. I know what euthanasia is.
This means you’re going to kill Roxy, doesn’t it? Dad
looks at Mom. It’s so obvious they think this is one of
those grown-up, don’t-tell-the-children conversations.
Willow, listen to me, Dad says. Okay, I’m listening.
Even for us, this is a hard thing to decide.
See? That’s what I mean:
“even”!
So
besides me
is on Roxy’s side?
Grandma and Grandpa
would take care of her, I know it!
But how can I get Roxy out to them?
I need someone to hold on to her in the sled
while I mush the other dogs. If only Marty
would come home. If only Zanna were
a few years older, and not such
a little blabbermouth.
There has to be
someone …
Kaylie?
I
have to
plan this exactly.
If Kaylie and I leave school
right at 11:50, we’ll get home just as
Mom leaves to take Zanna to kindergarten.
This is the day she volunteers in Zanna’s class,
so we’ll have time to pack the sled, hitch the dogs,
and leave for Grandma and Grandpa’s house by 1:00.
We can be on the trail for two hours before anyone notices
we’re gone, and if all goes well, we can get there before dark.
I find Kaylie beside her locker. It’s an emergency! I tell her.
Please! You have to meet me at the back door of the school.
Don’t say anything to anyone. Come right after math class.
She wants me to explain everything, but there’s no time.
It will be really hard to get her to do this. Bring your coat
and boots, I add. She stares at me. Please, Kaylie, it’s a
matter of life and death, I beg. It sounds so dramatic,
but Kaylie has had perfect attendance since third
grade, and I need her to skip an afternoon of
school without telling her mom, and she’s
one of those people who tells her mom
everything. If we can just get Roxy
out there where she’s safe, I know
tomorrow morning Grandpa
will bring Kaylie back on
his snowmachine, and
I’ll mush home.
It has to
work.
We
meet
like we
planned. I don’t
go by Dad’s classroom
on the way to meet Kaylie
with my coat on, so nobody asks
any questions about what I’m doing. Kaylie
could have slipped out, too, if Richard didn’t have
such a major crush on her. We try to distract him with a
not-quite-lie: We’re going to get lunch at my house today.
Kaylie’s nervous. She has been grounded exactly once in her
life, almost two years ago now, for something like seven hours,
and she still talks about that. This might be the worst thing she’s
ever done. I
fill her in on the details of my plan as we walk home
the back way, so neither of our moms will see us. But, Willow,
Kaylie says, I’ve never mushed dogs before. It’s true, but she
loves animals. All you have to do is sit in the sled with Roxy,
keep her calm, and make sure her eyes are protected from
the wind. She’s still trying to decide when we get home,
just as Mom drives off with Zanna on the snowmachine.
Perfect timing. When we go inside, Roxy comes right
over to Kaylie, wagging her tail, and I’m sure I see
them smile at each other. I find a note on
the telephone table, Mom’s writing:
“Vet—3:45. Bring blanket
to wrap body. Tell the
children? Okay,
if old enough to
understand.”
Emma, Kaylie’s great-grandmother (Chickadee)
Oh, for heaven’s sake, what are those girls up to now? I see that spruce hen waiting over there, ready to fly along with Willow. I suppose I’ll do the same for Kaylie. Sometimes she puts seeds on her mitten and holds it out to me. Chic-a-dee-dee, she says; I believe it’s her way of trying to talk to me. I like that. I hop right up on her hand and take the seeds, then fly off to a nearby tree to eat them. Kaylie keeps an eye on me. I keep an eye on her.
I don’t like the looks of this one bit—that dog should be inside where it’s warm and dry. The girls should be in school where they belong. Don’t they see that stormy sky? Do their parents know what they’re up to?
It looks like they have Roxy well wrapped in a dog bag and a warm blanket. Cora, Lucky, and Magoo seem eager to start out. Willow does know how to handle dogs, I’ll say that for her. If only she weren’t quite so headstrong. She gets these crazy ideas and pulls Kaylie along like this. I never know quite what will happen.
I’m
not sure
about this
weather. It’s
that kind where
first there’s a pocket of
sharp cold, then a little farther on
the air gets warm. The snow comes down
and stops and starts again—I won’t quite say so,
but I’m kind of nervous. Roxy is hurt—I can’t turn back!
We have to keep moving in case anyone comes and tries to stop us.
When Mom gets home, she’ll call Dad, who will figure out what I’m doing.
He’ll start after me on his snowmachine. Now it looks like Kaylie’s scared;
she keeps glancing over her shoulder at the sky behind us. When we stop
to rest the dogs, she takes out some seeds and holds them on her
mitten. A chickadee comes right down and grabs one, then
flies on ahead of us. Kaylie watches it. Come on, she says,
we should hurry, Willow. What if the snow gets worse,
so your grandpa can’t bring me back? We’re more
than halfway there, so I’m not too worried,
but she’s right about the weather.
It’s snowing harder than
it was just a few
minutes
ago.
Where
is the fork
in the trail?
Shouldn’t we
have come to it
by now? Snow
is coming down
so fast and hard I
can barely see. And
why is Roxy whining?
Her eyes are bandaged;
she couldn’t know if we
missed the fork back there.
Could she? I’m not going to
turn back. I’m pretty sure if we
keep going for about ten more
minutes on this trail, we’ll come
to the fork. If not, we’ll have to
go back to see if we can find it.
Mom and Dad are definitely
home by now. It’s starting
to get dark, and Cora
doesn’t know the
way like Roxy
did. Like
I was so
sure I
did.
We’ve
been back and forth
on this same stretch of trail three
times now—I still can’t find the fork.
Blinding snow swirls ahead of us, behind us,
and it’s getting colder and darker by the minute.
Now Kaylie thinks we should try to go back home.
She doesn’t know I’m not sure where we are.
I don’t know which way to go from here
to get home. I taste panic rising
in my throat. I swallow it.
And then a spruce hen
bursts out, right
in front of my
face. Do I
know
you?
The
spruce
hen flies to a
low branch, and
comes to a stop at the
point where the branch
slopes down. You are starting
to shiver, Kaylie says. You might be getting
hypothermia. We need to warm up. Be sensible, Willow.
Who made her the mother? But it’s true. All right, I agree,
we might as well make a fire here and wait for the snow to stop.
Kaylie looks around, then stares at me. We both know this kind
of snow could fall all night. We start to search for dry firewood,
and beneath the spruce tree’s low, snow-covered branches,
we find a shelter. Kaylie, look, I say, we can cut spruce
boughs for the floor, and lean the sled on its side
to shield us from the wind. Help me
get Roxy in here. Be careful
not to knock the snow
off that branch.
I think the
three of us
can fit in
here.
At
least
we brought
the survival kit.
And extra salmon to give
Grandma and Grandpa for Roxy.
We got a fire going; we melted snow.
We boiled water and checked Roxy’s eyes.
We changed her bandage. We kept her warm.
We cooked a pot of salmon stew, gave plenty
to the dogs. Now we can eat some stew
ourselves. Let’s not think of this as
“We’re eating dog food.”
We agree:
We’re all in this
together; we’re sharing food
with four good dogs. We try not to think
about the people who are worrying about us.
We aren’t sure if it’s safe for us to go to sleep—
if it gets colder, we could freeze to death out here.
One thing we know for sure: if we can stay alive
until tomorrow, when we do get home,
we can look forward to being
in the worst trouble
either of us
has ever
been
in.
Here’s
what I see
when I light
my candle: Kaylie in her
dark green sleeping bag, her back
against the sled; me in my sleeping bag, curled
around Roxy in her dog-bag, spruce boughs under us,
a red blanket over us. Nearby, in a snow cave we hollowed out,
we hear Lucky breathing. Magoo whimpers in his sleep and Cora
snores a little. The spruce tree seems like it’s as wide awake as I am,
spreading her branches to make this cold, cozy shelter. If I can’t stay
awake all night, I’ll wake up Kaylie, and she’ll stay awake while I
sleep. I won’t disturb her just because I’m scared. I’m the one
who dragged her into this. As long as everyone i
s breathing,
I’m pretty sure we’ll be okay. It’s still snowing
just as hard as it was
before.
Jean, Willow’s great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)
I’m roosting under the other side of this tree, awake with Willow, though she doesn’t see me. Do I hear something? Yes, it’s the sound of someone tearing through the forest on one of those noisy things they ride on. I’ll fly out and see what I can see.
The snow has finally let up a little, but the wind keeps blowing it around. The dogsled tracks are completely covered.
There’s the noisy thing, moving faster than I’ve ever seen one move at night.
Ah, yes—it’s Willow’s father driving it. His headlight shines ahead on the trail that Willow couldn’t find. If her ears are sharp, and if she can remember the direction of the sound, it could help her find the right trail tomorrow morning.
Now her father has arrived at her grandparents’ house—they’ve kept a light on for him. No one is asleep tonight. I watch them through the window as they sit and talk. Her father drinks three cups of coffee, then heads out into the night again, more slowly this time. At the fork, he stops and looks around, examining both trails for tracks, but there’s nothing he can see.
Willow never got that far. She took a wrong turn before the fork and got lost on an old trail no one ever uses anymore. Her father slows down when he passes it, as if he’s thinking. It would be a hard trail to travel in the dark.
Do I hear…? Yes, the dogs are howling. Good job, Willow. If her father stops, he’ll hear them—but is there any way to stop him?
I swoop in close and he looks up.
What was that? he says out loud. Too small to be an owl.
I try again. He slows down a little, but he doesn’t stop. He shakes his head and goes on home.
I
hear a
snowmachine!
I shake Kaylie: Wake up!
Come on, we have to make noise!
She half opens her eyes, pushes Roxy,
and says, I wish you wouldn’t sit so close to me,
Richard. I could tease her about it, but I don’t. I saw
the spruce hen fly off in that direction about an hour ago
and I thought I heard a snowmachine, but I wasn’t sure.
It went past, and everything was quiet. Now there it is
again. Our parents must be out looking for us, Kaylie.
She says, I don’t know. Out on a snowmachine in the
middle of the night? That’s crazy. That’s not even
the direction of the trail we came on, is it? She’s
wide awake now. Let’s wake up the dogs, I say,