Sync, page 24
The woman who answers
pulls the door wide open.
She fills the frame completely,
stands leaning on a cane,
eyeing me suspiciously.
I check her out the same way.
Her face says late fifties,
but her long graying hair
is tied back in a ponytail.
I take it you’re Lake.
Her voice is scratchy.
Well, I’m Josie. Come on in.
She steps back to let us
through, closes the door
with her cane, then limps
into the living room, which
is clutter-free but dusty.
You hungry? I was just fixing
some dinner. You’re welcome
to join me, too, Candace.
Thank you, but no. My family
will be waiting for me. It’s Kent’s
turn to cook tonight. I just need
to see Lake’s bedroom before I go.
Right down the hall. Follow me.
Photographs cover the walls.
There’s a man, in and out
of uniform, and at different ages.
Also, kids. A boy, a girl.
From baby pics to teens,
in chronological order.
All hang perfectly straight.
And no visible dust here.
The Bedroom’s Pretty
It’s painted daffodil yellow.
There’s a rocking chair by the window.
A table with a stained-glass lamp.
A dresser. And a bed. A double bed.
With sheets and pillows
and a star-pattern quilt
that looks homemade.
I’ve never slept in a double bed,
but even if it was half a single,
I’d feel like I do now.
Awed.
I expect you to keep the place neat.
Make the bed every morning.
Keep your clothes picked up.
Same with the bathroom.
You have one all to yourself.
A bathroom. All to myself.
“Okay, Josie.”
I put the Walmart bags
on the rocking chair.
Stare out the window,
which peeks into the fenced backyard.
This all looks in order, says Candace.
I’d better go. I’ll be in touch about school.
Hopefully on Monday.
We walk her to the front door,
where she hands Josie the antibiotics
I’m supposed to take.
She’ll be pretty sore for a few days.
Ibuprofen or acetaminophen for pain.
We watch Candace go
and Josie asks again if I’m hungry.
“I could eat,” I admit.
I’m a basic cook, but if you have
dietary needs, let me know.
You gluten-free? Vegetarian? Hope
you’re not vegan. I’m a carnivore.
“I’m not picky.”
Good. Tonight we have chili.
Her voice is clipped.
Not friendly, but not unkind.
I can’t get a read on her.
Her body language doesn’t help.
She’s stiff, but that could
just be because of whatever
makes her rely on a cane.
I follow her into the kitchen.
She points. Silverware’s there. Dishes there.
Guess I’m setting the table.
STORM
Thanksgiving at the Ranch
Is even busier than most days.
As usual, we’re up by six.
Even if my roommate, Ryan,
and I didn’t have to be, Pip insists
on that hour to go outside and pee.
Pip’s half basset, half pit bull,
and the weirdest-looking dog.
He’s also the coolest.
When I got here, Ryan had already
worked with Pip for three months.
Dude, you should have seen
him, Ryan told me. He was
all skinny and shaky. Scared
to death someone would hurt him.
It took Ryan days to get Pip
to believe he had a friend.
I hate to think what he went through
before he got dumped at the shelter.
Now Pip happily sits and stays,
fetches, heels, and comes on command.
All the basic obedience stuff.
His tail’s always wagging.
He didn’t even care when he got
another roomie. That’s me.
See, new guys move in with someone
who’s been in the program awhile.
The experienced dude teaches the newbie
positive reinforcement training.
It isn’t too hard. I’ve been here
not quite two weeks, and I’ve got
most of it down already.
When the next batch of rescue
dogs arrives, one will be assigned
to me and we’ll share quarters.
Just me and the mutt, no roomies
while we figure each other out.
Until then, I’ll keep working
with Pip so he understands
Ryan isn’t the only decent
person in the world.
He’s already pretty good
with the other guys here.
Also, with the other dogs.
There are sixteen, and some
are ready to graduate.
People get to see them online
and apply to adopt.
One of my jobs is to upload
videos of the dogs working.
That’s on top of my chores
and school and training Pip.
As Michael, who calls himself
the ranch “foreman,” says,
better busy than bored.
Keeps a guy out of trouble.
I Could Find Trouble Here
If I went looking for it.
A couple of guys are what
you might call shitty.
Not necessarily overtly.
We all understand we’re better
off here than in a cement cage.
There aren’t even locks
on the doors to our rooms
because what if we need
to let the dogs out
in the middle of the night?
Plus, as Michael made clear,
there’s a lot of wilderness
between here and civilization.
Even following the roads back
to town would take a good long while.
Plenty of time to raise an alarm
and send someone looking for you.
Then you’d be back in regular lockup.
For sure, those shitty dudes
would rather be here,
but there’s something bad
in their eyes. A warning.
And something in how they move,
like everyone else should stay
the hell out of their way.
You could flip a switch and set them off.
We don’t let them near the dogs.
Not that the dogs want
anything to do with those guys.
Dogs are smart about stuff
like that. They can read people
like instruction manuals.
These program dogs are super
sensitive because of how
they’ve been treated in the past.
They aren’t about to give
shittiness a pass.
Which is totally fair.
Righteous, in fact.
Not only will the people
who apply to adopt
be screened, they’ll have
to come for a couple
of visits first, to make sure
the connection’s strong.
There must be mutual attraction.
The dog has to adopt the people, too.
A family that wants Pip
is coming up on Saturday.
This will be their second
bonding session.
I hope they fall in love
with each other.
But Today
Pip will enjoy a few scraps
of our Thanksgiving feast.
Everyone here must do chores,
and the responsibilities rotate.
Today, I’m playing chef.
I never realized how much
prep work went into making
a holiday meal, especially for forty people.
Peeling potatoes.
Chopping onions and celery.
Stuffing the turkey.
Scoring the ham.
Spreading brown sugar
and marshmallows over yams.
Candied yams. Who even knew
that was a real thing?
The big old camp kitchen buzzes
with activity, six of us trying to stay
out of each other’s way. It’s comical.
Except for the knives.
Good thing they aren’t all that sharp.
My duty is pie baking.
Specifically, pumpkin.
Baking pies was not on my bucket
list, but it’s kind of fun.
I only remember having pumpkin
pie at a couple of Thanksgivings—
with Molly and Pete, and
last year with Jim.
I think it’s okay, but Jim
loves the stuff. He ate, like,
three huge pieces, drenched
in whipped cream.
Morley got more than a few licks, too.
Pumpkin’s good for dogs.
I looked that up because he ate
so much I got worried about him.
I guess Jim and Morley
are keeping each other
company this year.
Or maybe Jim’s got a new
foster. I hope he does.
I don’t want him to be alone.
That must mean
I really care about him.
I should rethink that
since every person I care
about disappears.
Wonder if Lake’s celebrating
Thanksgiving today.
Or if she’s on the street.
Where are you, Lake?
Are you safe somewhere?
I Try Not to Dwell on Lake
As I put four pies in the oven,
clean up my gigantic mess.
Then I go to exercise Pip
while the pumpkin filling bakes.
That gives me forty-five minutes.
There’s a big grassy field
behind the building.
We go for a gentle jog,
then I sit in the sun
while Pip sniffs for gophers.
I close my eyes against
the glare, and up pops
an image of a girl, haloed
in a shimmer of gold.
“Jaidyn.”
She’s right here, not quite solid,
but real enough. Her mouth
opens and I’m sure she’ll sing.
“Oh, God, I miss you so
much, and I’ll never—”
She lifts a finger to her lips.
I want to open my eyes,
make her disappear.
Want to squeeze them
tighter shut, engrave
her into my brain.
Pip starts to bark,
and for one ridiculous
instant I think he’s chasing
a ghost away.
But now I open my eyes,
identify the problem.
“Pip, here. Stay!”
Together, we watch
one of the shitty guys
try to escape a big gray
honking goose.
Help me! Shit!
“Stop running!” I yell at him.
No fucking way!
I keep Pip close to me.
He might attempt rescue,
but we can’t let the dogs
harass the livestock.
Not much I can do, either.
Nothing except laugh.
The hot pursuit continues
all the way to the dude’s room.
And now it’s time
to check the pies.
Best Turkey Day Meal Ever
The dogs are allowed at our feet,
as long as they’re well-behaved.
The only problem that surfaces
comes when the half-humiliated,
half-pissed shitty guy walks by.
He looks down at Pip.
Useless piece of crap.
The dog visibly shrinks
back against Ryan’s legs.
No way will I let this punk
destroy weeks of trust-building.
I stand. Face him square.
“Pip did exactly what I told
him to. He’s a good boy.”
Then I guess you must be
the useless piece of crap.
The other guys shift nervously.
I choose humor as a response.
“You know, I probably am.
My mother always said so.”
The room cracks up, releasing
a collective held breath.
Even Shitty Guy smiles, scuttles away.
What was that all about? asks Ryan.
“Dude had a little goose trouble.
I kept Pip out of the middle of it.”
Pip wags his tail.
It’s Still Wagging
Saturday morning when
the prospective adopters
arrive for their visits.
Ten program dogs, including Pip,
parade around the gym,
where their soon-to-be owners
are seated out of the cold drizzle.
It’s warm in here, and the mood
is cheerful as the handlers lead
their dogs to the proper people.
Ryan offers Pip’s leash
to a grinning lady with kind
eyes who’s maybe thirty-five.
Her husband shakes my hand
while her not-quite-a-teen son
kneels to stroke Pip’s head.
Can I walk him? he asks.
Sure, says Ryan. Tell you what.
Let’s go over there and you can
learn all the things Pip can do.
The boy—Caleb, his mom
tells me—eagerly takes charge
of the dog, who’s more than
willing to go show off a little.
I’m so happy this will work out,
she says. Caleb’s begged for a dog
since he was little and now we have
a big fenced yard for the two of them.
“He’s getting a good one,”
I tell her. “Pip’s special.”
He must be, says the dad.
Caleb’s never had a real friend.
We hope a dog will change that.
Our son’s on the spectrum,
explains the mom. High
functioning, but it’s rare
for him to relate to a stranger.
Caleb has definitely connected
with Ryan, not to mention Pip,
who seems to have a read on the boy.
He sits patiently, waiting
for instruction, rather than
anticipating it, which is how
he performs for Ryan and me.
“It’s good Caleb’s getting to learn
from Ryan. I learned from him, too.
It didn’t take long. Caleb will be
an expert before you know it.”
Caleb’s mom chokes back tears.
I’m—we’re—incredibly grateful.
To the program. To you.
And to Pip, of course.
Ryan and I must sign off
on releasing Pip into these
people’s care. No-brainer.
New Dogs Arrive Monday
Which means Ryan and I will have
our own separate living quarters,
with the addition of our anxious rescues.
I can’t wait.
Tonight, the room we still share is
quiet. And not only because Pip’s gone.
Ryan’s genuinely devastated.
He’ll be okay, right?
He’s going to miss us.
“And we’re going to miss him.
But he’s got a special job to do.
Did you know Caleb’s autistic?
He’s never really had a friend before.
But now he has a good one.”
I think that makes Ryan feel
better because he says,
The last friend I had was in third
grade. My dad was in the military,
and we moved a lot. Not to mention,
he drank. After a while it seemed dumb
to make friends, just to lose them.
There’s a whole lot left
unsaid there. We’ve never
discussed our backgrounds
or why we’re in lockup.
We’ve only talked about dogs.
The Irony Is
He and I could maybe be friends.
Clay and me, too. Or any one of
a handful of people who have fallen
into my orbit, for whatever reason.
But friendship requires trust,
something I’m not familiar with.
I’d guess it’s the same for Ryan
and Clay. In fact, I bet Ryan’s current
