Boys Life

helped him sort things out, when there were many things to be considered. “I understand,” he said, and two words were never more welcome. “You know, no mistake in the world can’t be fixed. All it takes is wantin’ to fix it. Sometimes it’s hard, though. Sometimes it hurts to fix a mistake, but you have to do it no matter what.” His eyes rested on me. “You know what ought to be done, don’t you?”
    I nodded. “Take Rebel back to Dr. Lezander.”
    “I think so,” Dad said.
    We were going to do it the next day. Later that night, as my bedtime approached, I took a piece of hamburger steak out for Rebel. It was a real dog’s treat. I hoped he might eat it, but he smelled it and then just stared at the woods again as if waiting for someone to come for him.
    I was no longer his master.
    I sat beside him as the chill wind moved around us. Rebel made little whining noises deep in his throat. He let me pat him, but he was somewhere else. I remembered him as a puppy, full of boundless energy, enthralled by a yellow ball with a little bell in it. I remembered the times we had raced each other, and like a true Southern gentleman he had always let me win. I remembered when we flew, over the hills of summer. Even if that had only been in my imagination, it was truer than true. I cried some. More than some.
    I stood up, and I turned toward the woods. I said, “Are you there, Carl?”
    He didn’t answer, of course. He had always been a shy little boy.
    “I’m givin’ Rebel to you, Carl,” I said. “Okay?”
    No answer. But he was there. I knew he was.
    “Will you come get him, Carl? I don’t want him to be alone very long.”
    Just silence. Just the silence, listening.
    “He likes to have his ears scratched,” I said. “Carl?” I called. “You’re not burned up anymore, are you? Will Rebel… be like he used to be?”
    The wind was speaking. Only that and nothing more.
    “I’m goin’ inside now,” I said. “I won’t come back out.” I looked at Rebel. His attention was fixed on the woods, and his tail wagged the slightest bit. I walked into the house, shut the door, and turned off the back porch light.
    Long past midnight, I awakened to the sound of Rebel’s happy bark. I knew what I would see if I went to the back door. It was best they get to know each other without me butting in. I turned over, and I went back to sleep.
    The next afternoon, at Dr. Lezander’s, Dad and the doctor left me alone while I said good-bye to Rebel. He licked me with his cold tongue. I stroked his misshapen head and patted him for a while, and then it was time. Dr. Lezander had the form ready, and Dad held the pen poised for my final word.
    “Dad?” I said. “He’s my dog, isn’t he?”
    My father understood. “Yes, he sure is,” he answered, and he gave the pen to me.
    We left the form that said Case #3432 with Dr. Lezander, my name signed on the dotted line. When we got home again, I walked around in Rebel’s pen. It seemed so very small. I left the gate open when I went out.

XXII – Dead Man Driving
    TOWARD THE END OF OCTOBER, DAD BOUGHT A WIRE BASKET FOR me to put on Rocket. At first I thought it was pretty cool, until I realized that now I would be expected to run all sorts of errands for Mom. It was about this time that she put up a hand-lettered sign on the bulletin-board at church, announcing that she was selling pies and other baked goods. A similar sign went up in the barbershop. A few orders began to come in, and soon Mom was elbow-deep in floury mixing bowls, eggshells, and boxes of powdered sugar.
    The reason for this, I later learned, was that Dad’s hours had been cut back at the dairy. We were hurting for money, though I never would’ve known it. There was simply less work for Dad to do at Green Meadows. Some of the dairy’s oldest customers had canceled their orders. It was because of the new supermarket in Union Town, which had recently opened its doors to the fanfare of the Adams Valley High School marching band. The supermarket, called Big Paul’s Pantry, could’ve swallowed our own little Piggly-Wiggly like a whale swallows a shrimp. It had a section, it seemed, for everything under a fat man’s chin. The milk section alone was a whole aisle, and all the milk was in opaque plastic jugs that didn’t have to be rinsed out and returned. And because Big Paul stocked so much milk, he could afford to sell it at prices that knocked the stuffing out of Green Meadows Dairy. So it