at last,
the rain came in a rush.
It was as though a giant hand
Had pulled a plug on a cloud,
perhaps the same giant hand
that had lit the candle
on Charles Larue’s
birthday-cake house.
Rain streamed from the sky,
and in its plunge
it accomplished two things
at once.
It doused
the tongue of flame
licking Charles Larue’s tower roof,
as neatly as a puff of birthday breath
puts out a candle.
And it soaked
one very cross cat.
Now, Fido,
as you know,
was already in a bad temper.
From the instant he had seen Buddy
dancing into the basement
of the Catholic Church
as though she had as much right
to be there
as anyone else,
he had been enraged.
A strange dog?
In his town?
One who had never asked
his permission to exist?
And waltzing right up to him that way?
What impudence!
What audacity!
What gall!
He knew how to teach her a lesson!
And he was ready to do
just that.
There was,
however,
one thing Fido hated
even more than an insolent dog.
That was getting wet.
Even a little bit of water—
dew in the grass,
a skim of puddle on the sidewalk,
a misty day—
was an affront
to his paws
and his whiskers
and his fine orange-marmalade fur.
A downpour like this
that soaked him to the skin
in the first breathless torrent
was more than an affront.
It was an outrage!
It was even more of an outrage,
in fact,
than an upstart dog
who needed
to be taught
respect.
And so Fido leapt from Charles Larue’s arm
and dashed
for the driest place he knew . . .
home.
Buddy
stayed snugged up close
to the man who had rescued her.
She began licking rain—
and were those tears?—
from Charles Larue’s face,
steadily,
thoroughly,
hopefully.
And Charles Larue was,
indeed,
weeping.
He stood
holding the little dog,
surrounded by the mayor
and the town council
and the Dog-Park Pack,
with tears,
as abundant as the rain,
streaming down his face.
The birthday-candle flame
was out.
His beloved house
was saved!
And these good folks
had come when he had called.
Every one of them!
In all his life
nothing so fine had ever happened.
No wonder
he wept.
As suddenly as the rain had begun,
it stopped,
and a watery hush fell over Erthly.
No one seemed to notice,
though.
The mayor,
the town council,
the boys
and girls
and dogs
were all too intent
on Charles Larue
to notice how wet they were.
Everyone moved in close.
There is nothing like tears,
you see,
to take the scary out of a man.
An armful of dog
can do it too.
Or a smile like the one that stretched
across Charles Larue’s face,
just above Buddy’s airplane ears,
almost as wide
as those ears.
With the downpour over,
folks all up and down Walnut Street
emerged from their houses.
They streamed toward the crowd
surrounding Charles Larue.
They didn’t know
what the commotion was about,
but whatever it was
looked more interesting
than anything that had happened
in Erthly
for a long time.
A woman with salt-and-pepper hair
came too.
Mark pushed closer
to get a good look at the little dog
in Charles Larue’s arms,
the one who kept licking
his face
and his great beaked nose.
Was it?
Could it be?
Yes!
This was the dog he’d been searching for,
the one
he was certain
had called his name
in the night.
Carefully,
he stepped up
to Charles Larue
and presented his palm
to the little dog.
She sniffed it
as she had the night before.
Her nose was still cool and damp,
her breath still warm.
“It’s you,” Mark said.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
And Buddy’s snuffling breath seemed to say,
also,
It’s you! It’s you! It’s you!
Mark looked at the man
who stood smiling and weeping
with the little dog
tucked in his arm.
“May I hold her?”
he whispered.
“Please?”
Charles Larue peered over the wide-flung ears
at the boy
standing before him,
his spiky brown hair flattened
by its recent soaking.
He didn’t especially want to give up
the warm, wet weight of dog
in his arms.
But there was something
about the boy
that tugged at him,
something sweet and sad
that shone in his young face.
“She seems like a fine dog,”
Charles Larue said,
“but, then,
you look like a fine boy.”
And he handed Buddy over.
His lady had been right,
after all.
He knew nothing
about dogs.
Mark received Buddy
as he might have taken possession
of a precious chalice,
reverently,
carefully.
He studied her pointy face,
her brown mask,
her airplane ears.
He scratched her
behind one ear,
then the other.
When he got to the left ear,
she leaned into the scratch
and rumbled,
deep in her throat.
Joy bubbled in Mark’s chest,
joy and the deepest,
most radiant
desire.
He wanted this small black and brown dog.
And he knew,
without a doubt,
that she wanted him,
too.
But when he looked up,
he saw his friends
and all their dogs,
waiting . . .
for him.
They wanted something too.
They wanted a dog park.
And he had made a promise.
As you know,
for all his effort the night before,
Mark hadn’t gotten beyond
the first two sentences of his speech.
Any speech
he might have written
wasn’t going to do him much good now
anyway.
The town council was here,
but this could hardly be called
a meeting.
Still . . .
he had to say
something.
As Mark searched
for words,
his gaze fell
on the tall iron fence
and on the expanse of green lawn
beyond.
And then his gaze fell
on Charles Larue.
Until just now,
asking to hold the little dog,
Mark had never spoken
to the man
in his life.
He didn’t know anyone who had,
except,
perhaps,
his mother,
who spoke to everyone.
And yet . . .
and yet . . .
Charles Larue’s eyes seemed so
kind.
And besides being kind,
they seemed sad.
Mark began to speak.
“Dogs need to run and play,”
he said.
“Kids need to run and play
with their dogs.”
The crowd grew silent,
listening.
Charles Larue listened
too.
He listened and waited.
And so Mark kept talking,
the idea gathering
even as he spoke.
“I thought,”
he said.
“I mean,
I was wondering if . . .”
He turned and gazed once more
through the iron fence
at the expanse of grass
and the towering trees
surrounding the old mansion.
There was a grove of pine,
a clump of white-barked birch,
a willow
bending gracefully over
a small, shimmering pool.
Mark had never noticed
how beautiful the mansion grounds were.
He had never noticed
what a perfect place they would make
for a dog park.
He looked at Charles Larue
again
and drew in a deep breath.
“Do you like kids?”
he asked.
Charles Larue seemed surprised
by the question,
but he nodded.
His head jerked up and down
as though he
weren’t quite accustomed
to saying yes,
but it was definitely a nod.
“What about dogs?”
Mark asked.
Another nod,
this time
smoother.
“And cats?”
Mark added.
Charles Larue hesitated,
for just an instant.
Perhaps he was considering the scratches
up his leg and along his arm
left by the last cat
he had encountered.
But even if he was,
he nodded again
anyway.
“Cats, too,”
he said.
“I’ve never had kids or dogs or cats
in my life,
but I like them all,
immensely.”
And though it was hard to imagine
that such a thing was possible,
his smile grew even wider.
Mark felt an answering smile
softening his own eyes,
tipping his lips,
opening his heart.
And now the words tumbled out
in a rush.
“You could have lots of dogs,”
he said.
“You could have
dogs
and kids.
You could even have a cat
who thinks he’s a dog.
And you could have them
every single day.”
He looked squarely
into Charles Larue’s eyes,
and now he could see.
They were as blue as the morning glories
his mother grew
outside her kitchen window.
“Just unlock your gate,”
he said,
“so we could come in.
Your yard
would make
a perfect dog park.”
And then he waited,
his breath buried in his chest
like some forgotten
treasure.
The Dog-Park Pack
waited
too.
The town council
waited.
Even the mayor
waited
to see what Charles Larue
would say.
At first the man
said nothing at all.
He merely stared.
He opened his mouth
and then closed it again.
He tried again.
“Unlock the gate so you could visit?”
Surprise sent his voice high,
as though he had never once thought
that anyone
might want to visit
him.
And he hadn’t.
“Unlock the gate for a dog park?”
he said.
His smile trembled
at the edges.
His eyes,
between his great bushy white eyebrows
and his great beaked nose,
shone
as crystal blue
as any tears.
“Why,” he said,
“nothing would please me more.”
And he reached into his pocket
and drew out an iron key.
“I’d love to invite
the children
and the dogs
and even the orange-marmalade cats
of Erthly
to visit
anytime they like.”
He looked at each of the Dog-Park Pack
in turn.
He looked at each of the dogs,
too.
He couldn’t look at Fido,
because Fido was home
licking his fur dry,
but he remembered Fido
very well.
“Together,”
“we can make a fine
dog park.”
Then
Charles Larue did something
no one
in Erthly
had ever seen him do
before.
He tipped back his head
and laughed.
The mayor,
and the town council,
and the citizens
who had come out of their houses,
and the Dog-Park Pack
laughed
too.
And if dogs could laugh,
I’m sure they would have.
Certainly
they all smiled.
“Yay for Mr. Larue!”
the kids shouted.
“Yay for the Dog-Park Pack!
Yay for the dog park!”
Only one person
wasn’t laughing,
cheering,
smiling.
The one person
you would have expected
to be the happiest of all.
The one who had come up with the idea
of a dog park
and who had just given a speech
that
had brought that dog park to Erthly.
Mark,
of course.
He stood as still as stone.
In the midst of all the commotion,
he had heard
a single voice
that had stopped his rejoicing . . .
and his heart.
“Buddy!”
the voice had called.
“Is that you, Buddy?”
Who was Buddy?
And yet he knew.
Mark squeezed the little dog
so hard that she grunted.
Oooooomph!
Then he did the only thing
left for him to do.
He waited.
A woman with salt-and-pepper hair
emerged from the crowd,
still talking.
“Buddy,”
she said.
“What a bad dog you are.
I was so worried.
I’ve been looking everywhere for you.
How could you run away
like that?”
Mark knew the woman.
In fact,
he knew her
well.
Her name was Miss Klein,
and she’d been his first-grade teacher.
Mark had always liked Miss Klein,
but he didn’t like her now.
Buddy,
if that was her name—
what a silly name for a girl dog!—
didn’t seem to like her
either.
Certainly she didn’t try to leap
from Mark’s arms
to say hello.
She wagged her tail politely,
just at the tip,
and gave Miss Klein
a limp-eared look.
Then she tucked her sore nose
back beneath Mark’s chin.
“Is this your dog, Miss Klein?”
Mark asked.
His voice had gone hoarse.
“My dog?”
Miss Klein seemed surprised
at the idea.
“I don’t quite think of her as mine,
but I suppose she is.
Friends left her with me
when they moved to the city.”
She gave Buddy a considering look.
“I don’t think she’s very happy
at my house, though,”
she said.
“She dug under the fence
and ran away.”
Miss Klein turned up her hands.
I tried,
her hands seemed to say.
I really did.
Then she added,
“I’m afraid I know very little
about dogs.”
“I know about dogs,”
Mark said softly.
“I know lots
about dogs.”
A long silence followed.
Mark looked at Miss Klein,
and Miss Klein looked at Mark.
At last Miss Klein said,
“Buddy seems happy with you, Mark.”
And as if to prove that was so,
Buddy gave Mark’s face
a slurpy lick
from his chin
all the way to his left eyebrow.
“I wonder if—,”
Miss Klein started to say,
but just as Mark’s heart
began a hopeful patter,
someone stepped out of the crowd.
His mother.
The mayor.
“Hello, Karen,”
she said.
Mark kept his gaze
fastened on Miss Klein’s face.
“I wonder if what?”