Wondrous Rex, Page 2

“Rex looks so happy,” Maxwell says almost wistfully. “Don’t worry. I just came for a visit. He’s working. Right?”

  Lily puts her arms around Maxwell. “He’s working!” she says. “I’m working! And I owe you a great deal for him.”

  Maxwell shakes his head and smiles. “No, I owe you. Seeing him happy—seeing you happy—is what I want. He is your dog now.”

  He hands Lily a card.

  “Here’s the name of his vet. It’s just down the street.”

  Maxwell bows to us.

  “I’ll visit from time to time,” he says. “I have to go train my chicken.”

  “A chicken?” I ask.

  “A smart chicken,” says Maxwell.

  “What does the chicken do?”

  “I’ll let you know the next time I visit.”

  He kisses Rex on the head.

  When he leaves, Rex watches for a moment, then jumps up on his chair.

  Lily laughs.

  “Okay, okay,” she says, sitting beside him.

  “Lily, did you put my journal on my bed last night?”

  “What journal? No. I did see Rex with his nose in your school backpack,” she says.

  I look at Rex.

  “It was open to page one and there was a pen next to it,” I say.

  Lily smiles.

  “Your father said it—‘smart dog.’”

  “Little does he know!” I say.

  Lily bursts into laughter.

  Rex looks over and pushes the search button. His paws move over the keys.

  Two quotes appear:

  There is joy in work.

  Dance like no one is watching.

  Lily gets up, grabs my hands, and, without music, we dance wildly around the room, whirling and laughing until we collapse on her couch.

  Rex watches us for a moment, then leans over to press a button. Lily’s new story comes up.

  Winter will soon sit outside with its early dark.

  “What are you writing?” I ask.

  Lily shakes her head.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m setting a scene—a time of year. I’ll follow it to see where it goes. Winter coming? Is it fearful or exciting?”

  She smiles at me.

  “Maybe Rex will know,” she says.

  I think of Maxwell’s words—

  “A bit of magic.”

  7.

  Love and Lemon Cake

  My parents have gone to a medical conference—infant to preteen. It is spring vacation, so I spend my week with Lily and Rex and the L’s.

  Rex becomes a “regular” dog again when the writers’ group meets. He is allowed in the group room while I draw and take notes at the dining-room table, behind glass doors.

  They do not know Rex will listen and understand their words.

  After a while he pushes the doors open to drink water in the kitchen. He lies under the dining-room table, at my feet.

  My journal sits under my notes. I listen with my stocking feet on Rex’s body as if he’s a footstool.

  This is the news:

  Every L has something to read this week. No backaches, no gardening, no interruptions in their writing lives. No complaints.

  They are eating sweet snacks, so there is a lot of energetic talk.

  Rex gets up and shakes his head at the door.

  I let him out and see Daniel walking by. He comes over, and we sit on the steps together.

  Rex wags his tail.

  “Hi, Rex,” says Daniel. “I’m Daniel, and you’re smart.”

  Rex sits and offers Daniel a paw.

  “He’s never done that before,” I say.

  “It’s code,” says Daniel. “He knows that I know what he knows.”

  I laugh.

  “You’re writing now, aren’t you?” Daniel says.

  “How do you know?”

  “You have a pen in your hand,” says Daniel. “I’m almost as smart as Rex.”

  Surprisingly, Rex woofs.

  “Hear that?” says Daniel. “He’s talking to me.”

  “I hear,” I say.

  And Daniel and I sit there together, happy with Rex’s company.

  Daniel leaves to help tend his grandfather’s sheep.

  The L’s come out in a while, peppy with sugar.

  Rex waits patiently as they all pat him and go off. He will go back in and sit on his chair and wait for Lily to clear the dishes. For sure he will come up with a quote.

  But inside, Lily is not clearing the dishes. She is sitting on the couch, crying.

  “What’s wrong?!” I ask.

  Rex jumps up on the couch next to her.

  “Nothing!” says Lily. “I love you, Rex!”

  She hugs Rex.

  “The L’s loved my story! They loved it.”

  Rex jumps off the couch and licks a plate, as if he knows she’s happy and won’t be clearing the dishes soon. He loves the leftover lemon cake. He ignores the cookies. Rex looks up at Lily.

  “Go ahead, my friend. Finish the piece of cake left,” says Lily.

  And Rex does.

  “I will send off my story to my editor,” says Lily.

  “What’s the title of your story?” I ask Lily.

  “Messages,” says Lily, tears still on her cheeks.

  “Messages,” she repeats.

  8.

  The Story

  Lily decides to go food shopping for the week.

  “I have to buy food and snacks for my dog!” she says. “Our dog,” she adds. “And snacks for the L’s.”

  “Get sugar snacks,” I say, making Lily grin.

  “Want to come?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Could I use your computer while you’re gone? I’m practicing writing.”

  “Of course,” says Lily. “Write away. I have a laptop computer I will give you when I get back.”

  When she leaves, it is quiet. Rex is sleeping in his dog bed.

  It’s just me. Alone.

  I sit at the computer. I press the start button.

  I hear Rex get up and stretch from leftover sleep. He comes over to look at me in Lily’s chair. He gets up on his chair.

  “I’m just practicing writing,” I say to Rex. “I don’t think you can help me.”

  Lily’s desk is neat. There’s no mess. There’s no writers’ help book titled What Now?!

  I press the button that brings up a blank page.

  “I have a title,” I say to Rex. “But that’s all I have.”

  I should feel odd talking to a dog, but I don’t. Not to Rex.

  I type the title.

  A Bit of Magic.

  “Those were Maxwell’s words,” I say to Rex. “About you. But now a blank page is all I have.”

  I sigh.

  Then Rex reaches over and brings up a familiar quote.

  If you find a book you really want to read but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.

  —Toni Morrison

  “I remember that,” I say. “It was the very first quote you sent Lily. But I’m not a writer.”

  Rex sighs a dog sigh.

  And then Rex does something new I’ve never seen.

  He gently edges me from Lily’s chair.

  He sits in her chair and his paws move over the computer.

  You are writing this book. Your story is about us.

  I have goose bumps.

  Rex jumps down and shakes his head at the door. I go over and open the door. Rex goes out.

  I go back to the computer and stare at his words.

  I reach over and print Rex’s words on a paper I can keep to read over and over.

  I think about the secrets of writers.

  “I’m a writer,” Lily once said. “I believe most anything.”

  I believe most anything.

  I am telling this story.

  I am seven years old, and this is the story I’ve never read and must keep writing—in Toni Morrison’s words—the story of a magic dog and a writer.

 
I’m a writer!

  Another day my mother and father may learn Rex is magic—

  Another day Maxwell will come visit with his trained chicken.

  There will be more stories.

  And I will write them.

  9.

  Book Dreams

  I have become a writer. It surprises me. It does not surprise my friend Daniel. Nothing surprises Daniel.

  It does not surprise my teacher Ms. Luce, although when she reads the beginning of my story, “A Bit of Magic,” it leaves her silent. After ten minutes she sits down, staring at me. She blows her nose. Is she crying?

  “I can’t believe your imagination, Grace!” she says.

  I want to tell her I am living the story, that I am not really imaginative. She might be disappointed.

  “And you’re using your words!” she says.

  An L once said in the writers’ group, “If you’re a writer, it’s never over. You write and rewrite, and when you’re finished you begin another story. An endless circle.”

  I never before understood what she might mean.

  My parents come home from their medical conference sick with the flu. They are too sick to work. Too sick to eat. And they won’t let me in the house. They don’t want me to catch it.

  “Pat Rex for me,” my father says mournfully on the phone before he goes back to bed.

  So I’m at Lily’s.

  She writes.

  I stare at the laptop computer she has given me.

  I need a new title. I need a quote, and a word or two or more.

  I need an idea. Lily once told me it had to be her idea to write her story.

  Lily can’t tell me an idea that’s right for me.

  Rex doesn’t know my ideas.

  And then it happens.

  It is teacher’s meeting day at school. No classes today. And the L’s come to writers’ group!

  Rex greets them, and he sits in their group.

  I become brave.

  “Before I go to the dining room, where I can’t hear you . . . ,” I begin.

  Lily smiles.

  “I would like to know where your writing ideas come from.”

  Rex sits quietly, taking the snacks the L’s offer. He listens.

  They are happy to talk about book ideas. They’re very peppy, even though they’re eating apple slices, cheese, and carrots. No sugar.

  “I am writing about my brave great-grandmother,” says Laura.

  “My childhood,” says Lois.

  “I’m writing about the future I want!” says Lana.

  “I’m writing about a painting I have loved forever,” says Lacy.

  “My garden and the peace it brings me,” says Lila.

  “I’m writing about a birth,” says Lou.

  “About someone dying,” says Laura.

  “About love,” says Lois.

  “About the truths in magic,” says Lily.

  Rex and I look at each other. We know about that.

  “About a dream,” an L finishes.

  A dream.

  I suddenly remember something from when I was very little. Rex sees my expression.

  “Thank you,” I say to the L’s.

  “It was a good question, Grace,” says Lois.

  I leave them still talking about book ideas. I go to my laptop computer. I push the button for my title page—

  A Bit of Magic

  Rex jumps up on the chair beside me.

  I delete the title “A Bit of Magic.”

  “You know I’m already writing that story,” I say to Rex. “You’re the one who told me.”

  Rex yawns as if pretending he doesn’t remember that.

  “I want to write about my dream when I was a little girl.”

  Rex looks at me oddly.

  “I know, I know, I’m still a little girl,” I say.

  I type a new title on the blank page:

  Book Dreams

  “I wonder what you dream about,” I say to Rex, not expecting an answer.

  Rex gently pushes me from my chair and sits there. He writes:

  I dream what I love.

  “Me, too. What do you love, Rex?”

  Rex writes.

  Summer sun

  Soft, silent snow

  New bones

  My work

  And you.

  I read his answer twice. It has the rhythm of dog poetry to me. I reach over and hug Rex and edge him off my chair.

  I begin:

  Book Dreams

  When I was just a baby my mother and father read books to me . . .

  10.

  Words / No Words

  Lily and I take Rex to the vet for his check-up. We walk four blocks, carrying Rex’s leash for when we’re in the vet’s office.

  Rex sniffs noses with a small furry dog on her leash. We walk on, Rex smelling the sidewalk and lifting his leg by a tree.

  “Sometimes I forget that Rex is a dog,” I say.

  “I know what you mean,” says Lily.

  We snap on the leash and open the door to the vet’s office. Many assistants rush to us.

  “Rex! One of our favorite dogs!”

  Rex runs around in circles.

  “Jake,” calls one assistant. “Rex is here!”

  Jake comes out of his office. Rex runs up to him, trailing his leash, and jumps up on Jake, the two of them face-to-face.

  “Happy boy!” says Jake. He looks at us.

  “No more sadness. You are great for him,” he says.

  “He’s great for us, too,” says Lily.

  Jake examines Rex. “He’s working for you?” he asks.

  “He is,” Lily and I say at the same time.

  “What does he do?”

  “He inspires me,” says Lily.

  “Us,” I correct her.

  “And he arranges the papers on my desk,” says Lily.

  Jake looks at her. He’s silent. He opens the door to his inner office with his desk cluttered with papers.

  “Not this bad, I hope,” he says.

  Rex goes in and begins arranging papers into neat piles. He picks up papers and a folder on the floor with his teeth, putting them neatly on the desk.

  Then Rex sits.

  “He only does that for people he likes,” I say.

  “I have no words for what I just saw,” says Jake to us. “No words at all. And if I told you what I’m thinking, it would sound crazy.”

  “I know,” says Lily. “I know.”

  Jake stares after us as we leave his office.

  “Jake said ‘no words,’” I say.

  “We have all the words,” says Lily.

  “And Rex,” I say.

  We walk, Rex prancing, spreading happiness to everyone who stops to pat him.

  Happiness all the way home.

  We make applesauce for my sick mother and father. Daniel and Rex come with me to deliver it.

  I knock.

  My father answers the door.

  “Are you growing a beard?” I ask.

  I’ve never seen my father with a dark beard before.

  Daniel smiles.

  “I’m too sick to shave,” says my father. He takes the big bowl of applesauce. Lily has put a design of thin-sliced apple rounds on the top.

  “Hello, Daniel,” says my father.

  “I’m sorry you’re sick,” says Daniel.

  “Me, too. Hello, Rex,” my father says, with more expression.

  He takes an apple slice off the top of the applesauce and hands it to Rex. Rex loves apple slices, and he eats it and woofs.

  “I have to lie down,” says my father. He closes the door. Our visit is over.

  “He looks really sick,” says Daniel as we walk back to Lily’s. “I never thought about doctors getting sick. That’s not normal.”

  I laugh.

  We sit on the steps.

  “How’s it going?” asks Daniel.

  “What?”

  “You know what,” says Daniel. “I have Ms.
Luce’s assignment written out for us. In case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I say.

  He takes it out of his pocket and reads it.

  “‘Write a short essay, story, poem, or observation about what you love. Use your words!’ Did you write about what you love?”

  “I began it,” I say.

  “What’s it called?”

  “‘Book Dreams.’ What did you write?”

  “A kind of poem,” says Daniel.

  I smile. “Do you have a title?” I ask.

  “‘Walking over Sheep,’” says Daniel, grinning at me.

  Rex woofs.

  “Rex likes my title,” says Daniel.

  “Rex likes words,” I say.

  Then Lily opens the door to give us a plate of thin-sliced apples that we share with Rex.

  11.

  Surprises

  It’s raining when I go to my house to get clean clothes to wear. My parents have warned me to go right to my room and stay away from them.

  Rex comes with me, a surprise because he does not list rain on the things he loves.

  My father opens the door and we go in.

  “Rex, you came, too,” my father says. “I have snacks for you.”

  My father opens a bag of dog snacks and gives Rex two. Rex is happy.

  I go to my room and gather clean clothes.

  When I come out Rex is in my mother and father’s bedroom, clothes scattered around. My mother waves from her bed.

  “What is Rex doing?” asks my father suddenly.

  A second surprise.

  Rex is not acting like a “regular” dog today. He is gathering the clothes from around the room and putting them in the laundry basket.

  My father stares.

  I remember what I said to Jake the vet when Rex arranged Jake’s desk papers.

  “He only does that for people he likes,” I had said.

  My father sits on his bed and watches.

  “Amazing,” says my father.

  Rex finishes by picking up magazines on the floor and putting them on my father’s bed in a neat pile.

  “I’m going now,” I say. “I hope you feel better.”

  Rex and I leave my parents’ bedroom.

  “Amazing,” I hear my father say again before we go out the door.

  The rain begins to fall harder.

  I gather the clothes in my jacket, and we run.

  “Snacks, right?” I say to Rex. “You cleaned up for my parents because you wanted more snacks. And, surprise, I think you like them!”