I was
the silent
sullen
one
but now
I’m noisy
and vicious.
Anger is like a disease.
You can catch it.
You can give it.
24
GABE THE DOG
THE SMELL OF A VOICE
When Tony yells into the phone,
I run and hide
in a dark
closet—
my cave.…
I won’t come out. I won’t.
Yelling isn’t like thunder, far away in high sky.
Screaming is close. A shouting voice hurts.
I feel the slap of each word
as it spills
the bitter odor
of danger
into my nose.
25
TONY THE BOY
FOUND AND LOST
Loser, loser, loser! I feel so terrible
about scaring Gabe by yelling at Mom
over the phone. I feel so horrible,
so awful, so lost!
But Gabe forgives me right away.
He always forgives everyone.
If Tío gets mad at him for breaking
the No Chasing Squirrels rule,
they make up quickly, but I never
seem to get over things
swiftly
and easily
like a trusting dog
or a really smart
grown-up.
Why does 50 percent of my mind
always seem to be stuck
in unhappy mode?
There’s only one way
to take my thoughts away from
Mom’s prison cell of rage.
Searches. Finding the lost. Helping.
My uncle tells me that before
the invention of GPS gadgets,
there were searches almost every day.
Hardly anyone knew what to do
with a compass and map, or how
to navigate by the stars.
Now, with GPS and fancy new
satellite phones that can get a signal
anywhere—even in the most remote
wild places—lost hikers often call
forest rangers
to ask which trail to choose
at a crossroads.
With all the modern technology,
wilderness searches are needed
only once in awhile, but they’re
still just as urgent as before.
Life or death. All or nothing.
One night, an autistic teenager
wanders away from a cabin.
The next week, two fishermen
fail to find the trail back downhill
from a high mountain lake.
A Swiss thru-hiker is rescued
when he gets disoriented
from dehydration.
There are crime scenes, too,
searches so gross that Tío won’t
let me hang out at base camp.
All I know is what I hear later,
when he and B.B. talk,
holding hands.
As soon as I see
how their fingers
touch
I start to wonder
what will happen to me
if they
get married.
My uncle’s cabin is too small
for all of us.
How long will it be
until he sends me away?
Every time I start believing
in safety,
something happens
that makes me feel
like an old toothbrush
in the lost-
and-found
box
at school.
Nobody wants someone else’s
trash.
26
GABE THE DOG
SHARING
Tony smells
so lonely
that I try
to share
my food
my water
my toys
but all he wants is company
so I take him outside and we run
round and round in dizzy circles
until finally, we fall down
and laugh
27
TONY THE BOY
SHORELINES
Summer turns into a season
of mysterious migrations.
One morning, there are thousands
of bright red ladybugs.
The next day, it’s shiny blue dragonflies,
swooping across soft green meadows.
Suddenly, only the tiniest spiders
float overhead, each one dangling
from a natural parachute
of silky white web.
Roaming wild creatures
don’t worry about where
they’ll end up, but I do,
I really do worry, so when Tío
invites me on a vacation road trip
to a distant beach, I’m excited,
but I’m also not sure how I feel
about leaving the comforting
mountains.
We ride with open windows,
Gabe and I both sniffing the breeze
as we zoom right past the prison,
turning west, then driving, gliding,
until we finally reach the bright,
endless ocean, and the warm,
sun-gold sand.
When Gabe chases shore birds
into frothy waves, I follow, running
and splashing, even though I know
I’ll never be able to catch any creature
with wings.
I don’t even want to catch birds,
but it feels so great to act like a tiny
kid again, romping with new puppies
that have never
been hurt.
Pelicans slide across the bright sky.
Sea otters roll around on blue water.
Everything is so peaceful
that I wonder if it’s possible
to feel sad and scared
on any beach
anywhere
in the huge world.
That night, under brilliant stars,
I ask my uncle a question
that I’ve wondered about
for a long time.
How did he feel when he floated away
from his home island? What was it like,
drifting on a raft in a storm,
then wrecking, being washed ashore
in a nameless place, without food
or a dog.…
I can’t picture my uncle before Gabe.
They belong together—how did Tío survive?
After a long, quiet moment, he speaks
of his childhood on the troubled island
where he had to be careful about rules.
Strange rules. Censored books.
Rationed food. Secret police.
Neighborhood spies.
By the time he was a teenager,
he was in trouble with the authorities
for buying bread on the black market
and for reading forbidden stories
and listening to outlawed radio stations
that played illegal foreign music.
Illegal music? No wonder my uncle
and Mom both fled their homeland.
Did she listen to the wrong songs too?
Was she always a rule breaker?
Was there a time when she knew
which rules deserved breaking?
Tío goes on to describe his parents—
my grandparents. They aren’t alive
anymore, but when I ask, my uncle says
maybe someday he’ll be able to take me
back to the island, to meet all my cousins.
The story of Tío’s youth ends
with his escape from the secret police,
on a homemade raft, in hurricane season.
Then the sea, the wreck, being stranded
on that nameless spit of sand, and finally,
surviving on rainwater, shellfish,
and seaweed. After a fisherman
found him, rescue became Tío’s passion.
Nature had fed him, God and people
helped him. He was determined to do
the same for someone else.
He received asylum in Florida,
learned English, studied forestry,
then worked in the Everglades,
Yellowstone, and Yosemite,
before choosing to patrol
the most remote places
along the Pacific Crest Trail,
places that seemed almost
as vast and perilous
as an ocean.
Wherever he went, he always
experimented with wild foods
and survival skills. He experimented
with wild feelings, too, trying out
different emotions
the way people in cities
try on clothes.
He had to decide which feelings
could be trusted
and which ones would poison
his mind.
Anger was useless, fear deadly,
and despair was the most dangerous
emotion of all. He realized that hope
was the only feeling strong enough
to keep him alive.
When Tío falls silent, I gaze up
at beach stars, gather my courage,
and ask about Mom.
What was she like when she was little?
Did she fight, was she cruel, did she care
about people and puppies?
My uncle’s answer makes me feel
as clear and limitless
as the starry sky.
Mom was ordinary.
Something changed her.
But she could change back.
And I’m not like her.
I’ll always be free
to be myself.
28
GABE THE DOG
BEACH DREAMS
Sleeping in a tent on the moon-bright sand
I dream
swim-run-swim
and in the morning
I can still smell the dreams
of my Leo and Tony
because they were swimming with me
so that even alone on the water
I was never
alone.
29
TONY THE BOY
WHEN ELEPHANTS JUMP
By the time we drive back
from our cool beach vacation,
I’ve collected a few experimental
feelings of my own
along with sand dollars
and seashells
and a gooey bag of chewy
saltwater taffy for Gracie,
who’s due back from India.
She arrives in a loud burst
of hilarious jungle poem-stories
about elephant sunscreen (mud)
elephant pizza (squashed trees)
and elephant dreams (jumping,
because when they’re awake,
elephants are the only mammals
that can’t leap).
After her welcome-home
nonelephant pizza party,
all I expect to do is sleep,
but a call-out comes at midnight,
and Tío takes me with him.
I wait restlessly at base camp,
wondering if I’ll ever master
the frustrating art
of patience.
The lost person is a teenage boy
with a homemade bow and arrow.
There is no place last seen—so Gabe
has to search a huge area, off leash
and eager, as he races against time,
because the boy is diabetic, and if he
doesn’t get his medicine,
he’ll die.
His family brings candles, food,
flowers, and a makeshift altar.
They pray in a language I can’t identify.
The women wear colorful dresses,
and somehow, the worried men
manage to look strong
and helpless
at the same time.
The search goes on and on,
but this time, Gabe isn’t the hero.
A helicopter pilot makes the find,
spotting the lost boy from midair.
Exhausted but happy, Tío assures me
that search and rescue is teamwork,
not individual
glory.
Still, as I think about how hard
Gabe tried, I can’t help but wonder
if SAR dogs ever feel
discouraged.
Lately, my mind is so full
of questions
that there doesn’t seem to be room
for answers.
Wondering and wishing are all
I can manage at Cowboy Church,
where I try and try to pray
for Mom …
but end up feeling
like wondering and wishing
are better than seeing her
or opening her hopelessly
angry letters.
Now I know
how elephants must feel
in between their lively
jumping dreams
while they’re awake
and limited
to plodding.
30
GABE THE DOG
MY WISHFUL NOSE
I’m not discouraged, just tired
and restful.
My nose has wishful moods
when the nostrils imagine sniffing
adventurous smells that I can’t quite name
with my dog-words.
Tony, you look wishful too.
Does your boy nose dream
of exploring wild scent trails
in unknown air?
31
TONY THE BOY
DOG YEARS
Summer is the best cure
for worries. I’m so tired and relaxed
from swimming, hiking, playing
dog games, and learning bear facts
that I can almost sleep
straight through one whole
nightmare-free night.
Maybe that’s why my dog nose blog
grows more confident
and number-rich
each day,
as I learn that people shed 40,000
skin cells per hour, creating a trail
of scent that a long dog nose
can follow, using all 230 million
scent receptors—100,000 times more
sniffing ability than the amount
of smell-skill in a short human nose.
It sounds like magic,
but it’s science.
If I want to study wildlife biology,
or forestry, or veterinary medicine,
I’ll need plenty of courage
to explore the tangled
wilderness of math.
So I try to copy Gabe’s way of facing
each day with the energy of a dog’s
excitement about work-play.
When I hide for SAR dog practice,
I notice the way all dogs love
adventure, but they also need to know
what to expect. Border collies
try to herd me, German shepherds
guard me, and Labs like Gabe
just love to fetch me.
I’m still trying to figure out how
playful dogs turn into such fiercely
loyal Rescue Beasts
while having so much fun.
Is there a mathematical formula
to explain generos
ity?
Tío and the other volunteer
SAR dog handlers are just as amazing.
They have normal jobs in forests, shops,
and offices, but as soon as they reach
a place last seen, they start to seem
like people from a different century—
a time when anyone could get lost
in the wild, and everyone always
joined the search posse.
I want to be just like them.
I crave that brave combination
of beastly toughness
and rugged kindness.
It’s like moss on a boulder,
hard and soft at the same time,
the same blend I’ll need if I’m ever
going to be a smart animal doctor
who knows how to cure
wounded dogs.
With thoughts of college and vet school,
I start seeing regular school
as important.
The new semester is a challenge
I almost feel ready to face.
Same classroom, same teacher,
same friendly students,
but I hardly recognize the girls.
They look a lot older, and they act
all giggly—even Gracie, who has grown
supertall, weirdly shy, and surprisingly
pretty.
But girls aren’t my only confusion.
On September 15, the first day
of Hispanic Heritage Month,
the teacher asks me to speak
to the whole class about my family
and their origins.
But I wasn’t born on the island.
I’m American.
I barely know any Spanish.
How can I tell quaint, folksy tales
about fiestas, feasts, cousins,
and grandmas.…
I won’t do it.
I don’t belong.
Not here.
Or anywhere.
I can’t belong.
Ever.
When I refuse to speak,
the teacher says she understands,
but then Gracie jumps in
and invites Tío to talk in my place.
He agrees, but only after asking me
if it’s okay. I do mind. I mind a lot,
but I don’t want to hurt his feelings,
so I keep my anxiety
secret.
I find myself listening with laser-sharp ears
as Tío tells the whole class about his life.
My eyes feel blurry, and my mind
has left the room. All I can think about
is Mom hungry, Mom scared,
Mom on a raft, drifting.…
Why didn’t I ever ask about
her childhood?
If I ask now, will she answer
and if she does, will her answers
be honest?
My birthday is coming soon—maybe
that will be the perfect chance to try
to get to know more
about Mom’s weird past …
but on the day when I finally
turn twelve, there’s no card or call,