Mountain Dog by Margarita Engle

 
    1
    TONY THE BOY
    NO NO NO MAYBE
    In my other life there were pit bulls.
    The puppies weren’t born vicious,
    but Mom taught them how to bite,
    turning meanness into money,
    until she got caught.
    Now I don’t know where I’ll live,
    or what sort of foster family
    I’ll have to face each morning.
    I dread the thought of a new school,
    new friends, no friends, no hope.…
    No! No no no no no.
    But the social-worker lady doesn’t listen
    to NO. She’s like a curious puppy, running,
    exploring, refusing to accept collars and fences.
    She keeps promising to find a relative who will
    give me a place where I can belong.
    I don’t believe her.
    There aren’t any relatives—
    not any that I’ve ever met.
    I know I’m right, but family court
    makes me feel dumb, with judges
    and uniforms
    wrapped up in rules.
    It’s a world made for grown-ups,
    not unlucky kids.
    Even the angriest pit bulls
    are friendlier than my future.
    Everyone talks about dog years,
    but all I can see now is minutes.
    Each impossibly long dog minute
    with the frowning judge
    and cheerful social worker
    feels like it could go on and on
    forever.
    Mom’s cruelty to animals
    was her fault, not mine, but now
    I’m the one suffering, as if her crimes
    are being blamed on me.
    When the social worker keeps smiling,
    I find it hard to believe she’s actually found
    a relative, a great-uncle, Tío Leonilo.
    What a stupid name!
    Maybe I can call him Leo the Lion,
    or just tío , just uncle, as if I actually
    know my mother’s first language,
    the Spanish she left behind
    when she floated away
    from her native island
    with me in her mean belly.
    The social worker promises me
    that although Tío is old—nearly fifty—
    he’s cool.
    He lives on a mountain, rescues lost hikers,
    guides nature walks, and takes care
    of trees. He’s a forest ranger.
    She might as well say he’s a magician
    or a genie who lives in a bottle.
    I’ve spent all my life in the city.
    All I know is Los Angeles noise, smog,
    buses, traffic, and the gangs, and my mom,
    the dogs, fangs, blood, claws.
    Nothing makes sense.
    Why would a cool uncle want to share
    his long-lost relative’s kid-trouble?
    This can’t be real.
    Real life should feel real,
    but this feels all weird and scary,
    like a movie with zombies or aliens.
    When a man in a forest green uniform
    walks into the courtroom, he hugs me
    and calls me Tonio, even though Mom
    never called me anything but Tony
    or Hey You or Toe Knee.…
    Out in the hall, Tío shows me a photo
    of a dog, a chocolate Lab—goofy grin,
    silly drool—not a fighting dog,
    just a friendly dog, eager, a pal.
    Tío walks me out of that crazy
    scary courthouse, into a parking lot
    where the happy dog is waiting
    in a forest green truck.
    I have to meet Gabe’s welcoming
    doggie eyes and sniffy nose,
    even though I’m not ready to meet
    nice dogs, cool uncles, or anyone else.
    Well, maybe just one sniff is okay.
    When I pat Gabe on his soft, furry head,
    he gives my hand a few trusting,
    slobbery licks.
    Yuck.

 
    2
    GABE THE DOG
    YES YES YES ALWAYS
    The boy sees how I sniff, and he breathes too, smelling the deep odors of night and bright fragrance of day. Time is all mixed together in one long, endless pleasure of sniffing. We open our noses, inhaling everything—all we need is in the air.
    I love the sound of his boy voice. Tonio. Tony. Not a very hard name to remember. I love the smell of his hands. The finger scent rhymes with good smells, food smells, friendly smells. Only his shoes hold an unfriendly odor. Bad dogs have walked near him. Strange dogs. Dangerous dogs. Their stench rhymes with bear scent and lion scent and the stink of rough places where stray dogs are caged.
    The boy moves his head in slow circles, eyes closed, nose open.
    The truck roars up our mountain. Aromas rush in. We lift our noses
    together, pushing our heads