The Wonder of Lost Causes, page 20
“Dr. Blunt, this dog has a unique gift. What if your child had epilepsy? Wouldn’t you want a dog, any dog, who could warn you, prevent a loved one from suffering the trauma of even one more seizure?” Clayton Silver sounds a little wooden, a little rehearsed, like he’s reading from a script. “This dog is too valuable to be a pet.”
Valuable? Is this about money?
“Mr. Silver, I’m going to need to see some kind of proof of ownership.”
I hear a chuckle. “Dr. Blunt, here’s what I’m going to do. This is a crazy week for us, busiest of the year, graduating our annual class of service dogs. Fortunately, our advisory board is around and meets again tomorrow. I’m happy to plead your case, but I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.”
“And what if I refuse to give him up?”
I mean what is he going to do, fly out a group of Navy SEALs to abduct Whistler in the middle of the night?
“Please, doctor, no one wants this to turn into an ugly custody battle. Imagine if the media got ahold of this story, printing a headline—‘Selfish animal doctor denies sick child a service dog.’” He sucks down a sharp intake of breath like he’s already got the media on standby.
“Unpleasant. Unnecessary. Far better to go with—‘Hero animal doctor returns service dog missing for four years.’ Much brighter ring to it, don’t you think?”
I don’t answer, but I don’t have to.
“Like I said, I’ll speak to the board and get back to you, but please, don’t paint me as the bad guy. Whistler has the ability to transform a sick child’s life. In good conscience, how can you stand in his way?”
He hangs up and I think, what am I going to tell my son, and, more importantly, why doesn’t Whistler get to choose?
41
Jasper
ONCE, WHEN AUNTIE Gwen was babysitting, she forgot to give me my enzymes with dinner and my intestines began to ball up like the worst knot of Christmas lights you can imagine. The exact same thing happened when Mom pressed play on our answering machine, because as soon as we heard Mr. Silver’s twangy cowboy voice, I felt the way Whistler jumped out of his scars. My mouth went sloppy—the English call it gobsmacked—and while I twitched and panicked, I couldn’t tell if Whistler’s surprise was the good kind or the bad.
“No one’s taking him away just yet,” says Mom, getting scary intense, making me lock onto her eyes when all I really want to do is cry.
Part of me thinks I might be about to die, like she’s hiding something really bad about my disease. Why else would she act so opposite about keeping Whistler?
“And it turns out he’s a highly trained service dog.”
Despite the badness this was brilliant news.
“Then Mr. Crabtree will have to let him stay?”
“Definitely,” she says, but she doesn’t seem excited like me. “Look, Jasper, I’m going to find out everything I can about this Mr. Silver and Paws Unlimited. I’m not giving Whistler up without a fight.”
So we start with their website.
“No shortage of ways to help you donate money,” says Mom, clicking on a picture of a kid my age hugging a yellow Lab. I don’t read as fast and she clicks on something else before I can finish but I still have time to focus on their happy faces and see the words “—changed my life forever.”
“Guess this service dog graduation is a big deal.”
Some famous congressman guy (I’d never heard of him) is giving a speech (yawn), there’s a demo of service dog skills (cool), and tons of awards and certificates being handed out.
Stalking Clayton Silver is more tricky. There is no picture and he doesn’t have a title like treasurer or secretary, but his bio says something about “integral to the success of our Capital Campaign” and “a true ambassador for Paws Unlimited.”
Then Martha calls and Mom smiles and says, “This should be fun,” putting her on speakerphone.
“I knew it. And the people who adopted him were perfect. Did a rabid beaver impersonation on their antique wooden chairs, and went psycho mole in their backyard. I listened to you, he had his chance, but when animal control tracks him down—”
“They won’t,” says Mom, eyeing me, “because he’s here in my kitchen. Don’t ask me how. He found us.” And then, shocker of all shockers, she says, “You were right, Martha. I should have listened to you. I should have adopted him sooner.”
Whoa. That shut her up. Then Martha comes back with, “Guess that microchip wasn’t lying.”
Mom and I keep quiet, but we turn to each other and our faces say, “What’s she talking about?”
“His name,” says Martha, “Lucky.”
“His name’s Whistler,” says Mom, loud and snippy and kind of over the top.
Then she switches off the speaker, puts the phone up to her ear, and says, “Martha, back when I was in the hospital, d’you remember you called me and said something about Lucky the dog, or maybe someone being lucky . . .” Pause. “Okay, maybe he is, but . . . it was the way you said it. Your tone.” Longer pause. “’Cause it sounded, well, kind of mean, kind of accusatory.” Pause. “Nearly a week ago, when we first got admitted.” Pause. “Really? Nothing?” Longest pause ever. “No, that’s fine, I just . . . yes . . . sure . . . yeah . . . I’ll be in touch.”
Who’s lucky? Can’t be me.
Mom blows out a breath, lips fluttering, and says, “I don’t know about that girl. She finally opens the door a hair, a crack, makes to let me in, but the moment I step forward—bam—she slams it shut in my face.”
Unlike Mom, and without using words that make no sense, Whistler and I exchange our own exact same look that says, “What is she talking about?”
But Mom never shares, and even though Whistler’s sort of been my dog for . . . twenty-five hours and . . . thirty-seven minutes, deep down, something still doesn’t feel like I’m his or he’s mine. The fact that we’re keeping him locked up in the apartment like a fugitive isn’t helping. And right now, I’m on lookout, standing on a chair, balanced in front of our kitchen window, ready to warn Mom by knocking on the glass if Mr. Crabtree appears while she’s sneaking Whistler across his yard for a pee. Still, I told Mom she might as well help with his deer problem and it’s a good excuse if they get caught.
Now the flashlight beam hasn’t moved for thirty seconds—probably number two and hopefully not near the rosebushes—when the phone rings, my new height (standing on the chair) giving me a bead on the caller ID, and there it is, the same number with the Texas area code—Cowboy Clay is back.
Mom is a tiny twinkle in the distance, too far away for me to shout. Let it go to voice mail? No way. I’ve had too many hospital visits where grown-ups try to sugarcoat the truth. Stew-pid phrase. Who makes a coat out of sugar?
“Hello.”
“Ah, Jasper, nice to speak to you . . . again.” He’s using my name like we’re best buds. “Your mom there?”
“Not right now.”
“That’s okay. Better to speak to you, anyway. I mean, you’re the one who wants the dog, right?”
“Right.”
“Here’s the thing. I’m sure your mom told you that Whistler has a special gift.”
“I already knew.”
“You did?”
“Yes.” I know Mom wants me to keep it a secret but I add, “He can tell me what he’s feeling. If he wants.”
“Hum. That’s . . . great, but I was thinking about his ability to anticipate a seizure, before it occurs.”
“I get it. He reads me all the time, only I don’t seizure.”
“Exactly. And that’s my point. You have cystic fibrosis.”
I can’t tell if he’s asking a question or stating a fact. Did Mom say something or has he been checking me out?
“Yes.”
“Truly sorry,” he says, and there’s something about the way he says it. Maybe it’s the “truly” but when some people find out and say sorry, it’s like I told them I got a paper cut or need a filling for a tooth. Cowboy Clay’s “sorry” sounds like he really means it.
“Tough disease to live with, but, from what I’ve read, your brain is perfectly fine. See, we need Whistler back in our program because there are so many kids, kids your age, whose brains are not perfectly fine.”
I think about Andy Peach in the year below me at school, peeing his pants when he had a seizure in class, some of the mean kids making fun of him.
“What this dog can do is nothing short of amazing. It’s a gift and incredibly rare. Some facilities train service dogs, place them with an epileptic, and hope the dog will bond and learn to predict a seizure. It might take months. It might never happen. Whistler is the real deal. He’s already proven he can do it.”
I wonder how rare it really is? I bet most dogs are screaming, “You might not want to drive that car right now,” but we’re not smart enough to feel them.
“Think of it this way,” says Cowboy Clay, “if I told you I had a dog who could stop your coughing, you’d want him, right?”
This is probably a trap but of course I say, “Yes.”
“Well, Whistler is that dog for children who have epilepsy.” Seconds pass before he says, “You ever donate toys or games to poor kids in your community, at the holidays? Drop a few quarters in the Salvation Army box? Sure you do. So you know how it feels better to give than to receive.”
Now he’s lost me. It’s one thing to give away some toy you’d kind of like to play with yourself. It’s totally different to give away something you physically love.
“Look, there’s a girl here, about your age, her name is Emily, Emily Smart. She has epilepsy and she’s been at the top of our waiting list for a seizure alert dog for way too long. We’d love to offer her Whistler.”
I think about the phrase from their website—changed my life forever—and part of me wants to say, “What about my life?”
“But you live in Texas.”
“I do, but our facility is based across the border in New Mexico.”
“Are you going to send someone to take Whistler away?”
“Sure, if that’s easiest. I can organize to pick him up, drive to Boston, fly him out to Oklahoma City, and we’ll take it from there. But . . .”
He leaves me hanging and I’m thinking, what kind of a dog lover would he be making Whistler fly cargo? He must have read the stats on air travel for pets. What if Whistler overheats or freezes or gets lost?
“. . . if I did, you wouldn’t be eligible for the reward.”
Wait a minute. Mom never mentioned a—
“Didn’t your Mom mention it? Set up by one of our donors shortly after the tornado. Big deal with the media, made them realize the importance of service dogs. Still stands, but the language of the reward is clear—Safe return.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars. Think about it. Not only do you get to do something selfless and special for a little girl in need, you also have enough money to get a service dog of your own, a dog perfect for your specific needs.”
But Whistler is that dog, I want to reply until I remember something Mom says every time we’re in the hospital. “Look around, Jasper. You’re not alone. There are plenty of kids far worse off than you.”
I can see the kid on the Paws Unlimited website hugging his yellow Lab. If someone really needs Whistler more than me, then I think they should have him.
“I know it’s short notice, but we’d like him back in time for our graduation this weekend.”
“But that’s only five days from now.” I keep the “and what about my IV antibiotics” to myself.
“Yes, but I’d love for you to be the one to present Whistler to Emily. I want you to see her face, her smile, her tears, as you give her the gift of a dog who can make her feel normal.”
Wow, he’s better than one of those ads for starving children in Africa. I guess I could get my own service dog, but I’d be just as happy with a dog from the shelter. Then we could use the money to find a new place to live and help pay off Mom’s college debt.
“Jasper, can you help me convince your mom?”
I don’t know what to say. Staring at the floor in silence is my normal reply to difficult questions.
“Why don’t you and your mom bring him out here? Think of it as an adventure, a fun way of spending your last few days together, a chance to say a long and meaningful goodbye.”
It turns out (though I would never tell Mom), I’m already pretty good at saying goodbye. There’s this online forum for kids with CF where we whine about our treatments, our coughs, and our crappy lung function tests, but sometimes it gets competitive, like with my friend Josh, from Cleveland, who’s my age, saying, “My five weeks in ICU beats your sinus surgery with complications any day.” And every so often, someone who’s really sick, like Morgan—thirteen, from Hawaii, season one veteran in Fortnite—will play the ultimate trump card: lung transplant. No one can top this. Getting on the list for a lung transplant is bad, sands-running-out-oxygen-tank-on-empty bad. Somewhere in cyberspace, on the other end of a keyboard, we’re left to wonder: Does this kid get a future? And if her posts go quiet, did the new lungs work, did she finally get to breathe, able to forget about her fellow sufferers, or, despite her last chance, did she run out of time?
Whistler deserves the best send-off ever. No question. But how can he teach me everything I need to know about dogs in five days? I want to cry. I don’t want to be brave.
“Jasper, can I count on you to make this happen? Jasper?”
Part II
How many things would you attempt if you knew you could not fail.
—Robert Frost
42
Jasper
“MY NAME IS Jasper Blunt.”
The bald guy in the blue TSA uniform smirks and flutters my birth certificate in the air. “Not you. The dog.”
Whistler sits by my side, the noseband of his Gentle Leader denting the zebra stripes, fake jacket snug and masking the biggest scar.
“Whistler.”
“Service or therapy?”
“Service,” I say.
Bald guy, too lazy to get off his stool, leans out to the side of his podium, looks Whistler up and down, and comes back to Mom with an expression that wrinkles his forehead.
My hands are shaking. This is the scary bit. Cowboy Clay emailed us a letter to show security, explaining our trip, but Mom says, “It won’t hold up in court”—whatever that means. I read online that sometimes, totally random, TSA will ask to see a service dog license. If they do, we’re busted.
Bald guy thinks about it, pen hovering over our boarding cards before laying down some chicken scratch and gesturing for the three of us to move on.
Don’t smile, don’t celebrate, stay cool. There’s still more work to be done. Next up, the metal detector.
Whistler takes my sit command, waits for me to pass under the tall, silent rectangle and then, responding to a finger flick, trots through. We’ve practiced going through open doorways, but what if something metallic in his vest sets it off, he’s stripped naked and I have to explain away the big, big scar.
No alarm bells. Still, the boys and girls in blue stare, dying to know—what’s the disability? But here’s the best part: They’re not allowed to ask, except questions like “What does my dog do for me?” Switching on lights, opening doors, and fetching toilet paper might not cut it. Warns me my blood sugar is running low feels too specific. So, if asked, I’m going to go with “He keeps me calm,” together with a raised eyebrow, just to freak them out a little, like they might want to order up an air marshal.
43
Kate
“GATE A19 IS this way,” says Jasper, loud and fake, glaring at my guilty smile, desperate for me to stop looking like the shoplifter who didn’t get caught. He and his wreck of a crooked dog head toward a mechanical walkway and I think, I’m sure there was a time when this idea made sense. But as the three of us weave and bob through a rowdy crush on our way to the gate, the glitches in my plan leave me feeling too indulgent, too spontaneous, and worst of all, too exposed.
Here’s my original train of thought. Jasper is doing well and out of school for the next week. Home or not, I can handle his grueling regime of IV antibiotics, thanks to my illicit stash of little blue helpers. Another unscheduled absence from work is awkward but in my email to KGB, I stressed how I was using vacation time to “unburden the shelter of an unadoptable dog.” She’s yet to reply.
Jasper’s conviction that a little girl named Emily needs Whistler more than he does is impossibly endearing and impossible to contradict. Even though I thought Paws Unlimited was acting more like a covert government agency, tracking down a valuable asset gone rogue, it’s obvious they want Whistler back for the right reasons. If Mr. Crabtree busts us for keeping a dog in the apartment, we’ll be sleeping in our truck. So why not get on with it? Of course I’d prefer a fast goodbye. But part of me believes this trip is a small concession to a boy prepared to give up the canine love of his life.
When I lay it out like this, and squint hard, I can make out a semblance of logic. The shelter will be okay—though I’m not exactly sure where I’ll find the money for quarterly taxes and next month’s payroll—thanks to Doc Wickham, seventy-two years old, still twice as fast as me at canine castration, and happy to cover as needed. But I can’t escape the intangible influence of a sick child enlightened by a magical dog. I can still hear Jasper’s drowsy bedridden mutterings, the prattle of an older (maybe wiser) CF mom, and it’s more than being haunted, I don’t want their message to fall on deaf ears. My son is living with his disease. Thanks to me, maybe he’s not been living enough. By agreeing to this odyssey, no one can say I didn’t listen.
To be clear, I don’t like to fly.
“We could make this a road trip,” I offered. “Take Norman.”
“Mom, Norman can barely make it over the Sagamore Bridge, let alone the nineteen hundred and eighty-four miles to New Mexico.”
