Chester and Gus Read online

  I will still have duties and responsibilities.

  I will do what I am told.

  I won’t be too sensitive or overreact.

  When they finally wake up, I’m exhausted from waiting for this day to start.

  School

  MS. WINGER IS STANDING IN FRONT of the school, waiting for us. I listen carefully to her conversation with Sara. “Most of the kids are very excited to have Chester in class. A few of them have had some bad experiences with dogs, though, and they’re a little nervous. For this first day, we’d like to introduce Chester and give kids a chance to say hello, but I don’t want to push it or have him stay too long. Does that sound okay?”

  “Fine,” Sara says, but I can tell she’s mad. “Just to remind you, though, he’s meant to be here for Gus, helping Gus socialize and feel more comfortable around school. He’s not here for the other kids. He’s a service dog.”

  “He’s a therapy dog, which is different. If the goal is helping Gus socialize with other children, then we need to make sure the other children are comfortable.”

  Now I feel even more scared. Sometimes when I get scared, I accidentally bark. I have to remember not to. Barking scares kids. Barking is only good for talking to other dogs in the neighborhood. At school there are no other dogs. Only me.

  The classroom looks like classrooms I’ve seen on TV. All the children go quiet when we walk in. One girl points and says, “Oh, he’s so cute!”

  Gus wouldn’t hold my leash out in the hallway, so Sara is holding it, walking us both up to the front of the room. Gus walks on his toes, flaps his hands, and makes squeaking noises.

  Ms. Winger pulls out two chairs for Gus and Sara to sit down in. I sit next to Gus so kids will see us together even though it means my leash is stretched across his lap.

  Ms. Winger says to the class, “Okay, Gus. Would you like to introduce your friend who’s going to be joining us in class a few days a week?”

  Gus doesn’t say anything of course.

  Sara leans in to his ear and whispers, “Gus, say, ‘This is my dog, Chester.’”

  Sara is smart to try this. The only time Gus talks out loud is when he repeats the words someone else has given him.

  This time, though, he doesn’t say anything.

  He pushes my leash off his lap so no part of me touches him.

  Sara smiles at the group. “Hi, everyone, this is Chester. He’s here to help Gus get more independent and better at talking with other kids. He’s a very sweet dog, and Ms. Winger has said there will be certain times in the day when you’ll be allowed to come over and visit with him if you’ve finished all your other work.”

  Sara’s trying not to look nervous. She’s better than Penny at this, but I can still tell.

  “Are there any questions?”

  A girl raises her hand. “What will he do for Gus?”

  “That’s a good question, Amelia,” Ms. Winger says. “We’re working that out. For now, he’ll be here in the mornings, over in the special corner we’ve made for him. If Gus needs some chill-time, he’ll take Chester with him. Gus has to remember that Chester will be waiting to hear his commands. The only person who’s allowed to tell Chester what to do is Gus. Does everyone understand that? Chester shouldn’t have eighteen voices telling him what to do. Only Gus. Okay, everybody?”

  I’m surprised hearing Ms. Winger say this rule. I’ve lived with Gus for a while now and so far he’s never given me a command. I wonder if Ms. Winger knows this.

  “Are there any more questions?”

  One girl asks how old I am. Sara tells her about a year. Another boy asks where I’ll go to the bathroom and if someone will have to clean it up if I go number two.

  “We’re going to take care of that, Wes, don’t worry, okay?” Ms. Winger says.

  A tall boy with curly hair sitting toward the back of the class raises his hand. This whole time he’s been leaning back on two legs of his chair. He keeps almost falling and then he doesn’t. “Yes, Ed?”

  “It’s kind of unfair that Gus gets to bring his dog in and the rest of us don’t, isn’t it?”

  Sara shifts in her seat like she wants to answer this boy, but Ms. Winger holds up one hand as if to say, Let me. “Remember I explained this to everyone yesterday, Ed? Chester is a therapy dog. This means he has a job to do. The reason the rest of you can’t bring your dogs to school is because you don’t have specially trained dogs, and you don’t need help navigating your day. Now—why don’t we wrap this up by letting Gus show us some of the things Chester can do. I’ll bet he has a few tricks, right?”

  Ed’s question made us both look down at the floor, but now Ms. Winger has made us feel better. Sara sits up straighter. So do I. “Oh yes, of course,” Sara says. “He’d love to show you a few things he can do.” She leans in to Gus’s shoulder and whispers, “Do you remember what you say to get him to lie down?” She waits for a second. “Say, ‘Chester, down.’”

  I start to lie down but Sara stops me. “Not yet, Chess. Let Gus say it first.”

  I sit back up and look at Gus, who is staring at something out the window.

  We all wait. For a long time.

  “Gus?” Sara says hopefully.

  “Can you ask Chester to lie down?” Ms. Winger says. I look at him again. Can you say it, Gus? I’ll do it if you say it. Or we can show them another trick. Penny taught me a few that she called “silly party tricks,” even though she never went to parties. One was “Chester, pray,” where I put my paws together and bend my face into them. If you put your hands together and pray, I’ll do it too. Everyone always thinks that’s funny.

  We wait.

  We keep waiting. We wait for so long I wonder if Ms. Winger is doing this on purpose to show Sara that Gus doesn’t really want me here.

  I want to say: But look at how much Sara wants me here.

  Gus smiles at something out the window. I lick his hand so he remembers that I’m here and everyone is watching. Finally Ms. Winger says, “Maybe we should let Gus’s mom take Chester home now and everyone should say thank you to Sara and Gus for letting us meet Chester!” She claps loudly and a few kids join in.

  I look around. But we haven’t done anything, I think.

  Then something happens. Gus’s hands move together. He waits for a second so everyone is watching. Then, without a sound, he puts them together. He’s doing what I told him to do! He’s praying!

  I lie down on the ground and put my paws together. Penny said it’s even funnier if I put my nose under my paws, so I do that too.

  Sara’s the first one to realize what we’ve done. She laughs and claps. “Good job, Gussie! You showed them a trick! Look, everyone—Chester is praying!”

  Now they understand and more kids clap.

  Ms. Winger bends over me. “Oh my goodness, puppy, what are you praying for?” She’s smiling, like what we’ve just done has changed her mind on a few things. Like she was only pretending to like me before but now she really does.

  How to Tell a Joke

  “I’M TELLING YOU, MARC, GUS WASN’T even in the room when Penny showed me that trick.” Sara’s been smiling the whole time she’s told Marc the story about our school visit today. “I know he wasn’t. And I never showed him the trick because I would have assumed Gus doesn’t understand what praying means. Obviously he does and the kids loved it! But how did Gus know Chester could do that?”

  Marc thinks about it. “He was listening outside the door when Penny was here? Maybe he’s more interested in Chess than we thought?”

  “That’s the only explanation that makes any sense! He was listening in when Penny told me all this. Which means he understands so much more than we ever thought! He understands a joke! He even had great timing—he waited until the last second when Ms. Winger had essentially said, ‘Show’s over’ and then he pulled out the last act . . .”

  Marc smiles and shakes his head. “And Gus really put his hands together?”

  “Yes! With the whole class w
atching!”

  I don’t know if it would make a difference if I told her: I don’t think Gus overheard your conversation. I’m pretty sure he just heard me. We hear each other sometimes.

  Would that make her feel better or worse? I’m not sure.

  How to Worry

  THE NEXT MORNING, I ACCIDENTALLY EAT breakfast so quickly I forget to taste it. Then I sit by the front door and wait to go to school again with Gus. No one explains anything until Sara comes back for her cup of coffee and says, when she almost trips over me, “Oh, Chess, I’m sorry. You’re not coming today. We’re not going to school. Gus has a doctor’s appointment in Hartford. Dogs can’t come to doctor’s offices.”

  I wish I could tell her I know all about doctor’s offices! I can press door openers and stand back so they don’t hit me! I can help with elevators!

  I can’t tell her this of course, so I wait at home alone all day, listening to the radio and mysterious stories interspersed with weather predictions that make me more and more anxious. “Heavy rain will make driving conditions difficult” is not what you want to hear, over and over, when all your people are in a car somewhere and you’ve had to pee since right after breakfast.

  You don’t want to listen to rain, or smell it, or hear car horns in the distance honking.

  When Marc finally comes home, I’m happy until he says, “Hey, where are the others, Chess? They should be home by now.”

  That’s also not what you want to hear. I don’t go back to my bed because lying on the floor makes it easier for me to hear and feel when a car comes in.

  I keep waiting for hours, it seems like. Finally Sara’s car comes in. I smell them before the door even opens. I’m so relieved and happy, I dance around in circles dribbling pee, though Marc just let me out a little while ago. “Oh, sweet Chester,” Sara says. “Were you worried? You shouldn’t have worried. We just hit traffic coming home, that’s all.”

  Marc hugs Sara and she tells him more. The doctor kept them waiting forever and ordered two tests they had to do then or else drive all the way back next week.

  “Did they tell you anything?” Marc asked.

  “We have to wait. For now we have periodic incontinence on top of everything else.”

  I don’t know what incontinence means, but I wonder if it has anything to do with the way Gus smells like urine sometimes. It’s a smell I love. It makes me follow him around and sit outside his bedroom just to enjoy that cloudy aroma.

  “I told the doctor it’s happened four times in the last month and it doesn’t seem related to stress. He’s checking urinary tract infections and some other things. Kidney stones, bladder function.”

  I only understand that something new and worrying is happening with Gus. I go and stand near him. He doesn’t have his wonderful urine smell now, but it’s okay.

  “This is what always happens, isn’t it?” Sara says to Marc, though she’s looking at both of us. “We have one great day that feels like everything’s changed and then the next it feels like nothing has.”

  Non-Breakthroughs

  IT’S MONDAY WHEN I FINALLY GET to go back to school. Sara tells Gus, “Chester will only be there for two hours. He won’t stay the whole day. We’re doing this a little bit at a time, so everyone can adjust.”

  It’s not me Sara’s worried about. She ruffles my ears and touches my nose and whispers into the top of my head, “You’re a good dog, aren’t you?”

  She’s worried about Gus. This morning he woke up with that wonderful smell all over his bed. It made her sad, so I sat near her while she changed the sheets.

  I don’t mind the smell, I try to tell Gus. In fact I like it. But he either isn’t listening or can’t hear me. It’s hard for me to predict what he hears and what he doesn’t. Maybe he’s answering and I can’t hear him.

  Ever since our joke at school, we haven’t talked to each other at all. I tried to tell him, Good job telling me to pray at school. You made your mom really happy.

  He didn’t answer me or else I couldn’t hear him.

  I’m starting to think I know how Sara feels: It’s sad to have something feel like a breakthrough and then maybe it isn’t.

  Ms. Palmer

  I’M SURPRISED. IT TURNS OUT THAT you can learn a lot going to school.

  For instance, I learn the reason Ms. Winger waited for so long before letting me come to school wasn’t because of any kids in the class, it was because of Ms. Palmer next door, the other fifth-grade teacher who sometimes says, loud enough for me to hear, that she doesn’t believe in therapy dogs. Most of Ms. Winger’s class goes over to her room for math, but I never go because she says no dogs are allowed in her class.

  I overheard her talking to Ms. Winger. “I can’t control what you do, Marianne, but no, that dog isn’t coming into my classroom. He’s a distraction, that’s all. There isn’t any real work he’s doing.”

  Even though Ms. Winger said, “Okay, that’s fine. I’ll keep him here with me then,” Ms. Palmer wanted to keep talking about it: “It’s like all that ‘Read to a Dog’ nonsense. You want kids to practice reading out loud to someone who won’t interrupt, give them a stuffed animal. But a dog who isn’t listening and is only going to get up and walk away? No, thank you.”

  I remember Penny taking me to a few library sessions of “Read to a Dog.” I loved those stories. I never wanted to get up and walk away. If I could talk to Ms. Palmer, I’d tell her not enough people read to their dogs. I have a feeling that if I’d had more stories read to me, I’d understand more about the humans I love.

  Some subjects, like math, are too hard for me to understand, and other subjects, like the story of Christopher Columbus, aren’t. Apparently most people think Christopher Columbus discovered America, but he didn’t really. There were a lot of people who already lived here. He just walked in and said, “I’ll take this,” and he did.

  I’m also learning the days of the week and months of the year. As a dog you hear these names all the time, but no one ever explains them. Fifth graders know the calendar already but they’re tracking the moon cycle every night on the calendar. I already know all about the moon, but now I understand what yesterday means and tomorrow. Before, I thought those were names of days and I never understood why they happened so often.

  At school, it’s easy to see how different Gus is from other kids his age. Other kids talk to each other in the hall before school starts. In class, after the bell rings, they use their faces to make jokes. They widen their eyes or blow out their cheeks and crack each other up. I don’t understand most of it. All I know is that Gus can’t do any of this. At school he never laughs at what the other kids are doing. Instead, he laughs at things going on inside his head.

  At recess, I stay with Gus as much as possible, but if he’s earned time with his sparkly pen, he won’t do anything except sit on a bench and wiggle his pen back and forth, fast, in the corner of his eye. If I talk to him, he doesn’t hear me, or at least he doesn’t answer.

  Why do you wiggle your pen so much? I say.

  Nothing.

  Maybe you should play with other kids a little.

  Nothing.

  It’s like he goes into a trance with his pen. He can’t see or hear anything when he’s got his pen.

  Mama

  FOR A WHILE I THOUGHT SARA was right, that Gus didn’t have anything at school he liked very much. School makes him so nervous he walks on his toes, with his legs really straight wherever he goes, the same way he walked around me in the beginning. Walking like this means he doesn’t look where he’s going. Usually he doesn’t bump into anything because everyone sees him coming and gets out of his way. If they don’t see him, I nudge his leg with my nose, which makes him stop. Then he waits for a while before he starts walking again.

  Sometimes he walks so slowly, his teacher’s aide, Ms. Cooper, has to say, “Come on, Gus, we need to keep going.” Ms. Cooper is younger than the other teachers. Sometimes I think she’s scared that if she says the wrong thin
g, Gus might have a tantrum, so she never pushes him too hard or makes him walk too fast.

  I’m pretty sure Gus walks like this because he doesn’t like that he’s going to Ms. Cunningham’s room for speech therapy, or Ms. Watusik’s room for occupational therapy, or Mr. Foster in the gym to practice catching a ball. Gus can’t do most of the things they’re trying to teach him. In OT he practices handwriting, which he hates. In speech therapy he practices using a talking computer, which has a voice he can’t stand. He covers his ears every time it speaks. Ms. Cunningham hasn’t noticed, but I have. And what does it matter if Gus can catch a ball? He’ll never do it again after he learns. I’m not surprised that he walks slowly to all these places. It means he has to spend less time once he gets there, which is smart of him.

  There’s one place that isn’t like this for Gus. He doesn’t have to be told to keep walking or hurry up. His legs never stiffen up on his way there.

  That place is the cafeteria, but he doesn’t love it for the reason that I do: because of the smells and the food that sometimes falls on the floor between my paws.

  Gus loves the corner behind the trash cans, where people are supposed to sort the things on their trays into compost and trash. In that corner there’s a magic rolling mat that carries trays through a window. I can’t see the mat, but that’s how I heard Gus describe it in his mind. Sometimes I hear his thoughts even if he’s not talking to me. He’s saying it loud enough in his mind for me to hear, I guess.

  Magic rolling mat! Bye-bye, tray!

  I can see the tray move and then disappear. It’s a good trick. If I was younger and not trained, I might even bark at it because it scares me a little, seeing things disappear.

  But that’s not Gus’s favorite part.

  His favorite part is when the face of a woman, brown like me, with silver hair, peeks through the black plastic ribbons and smiles at him. Every day she smiles and says the same thing: “How’s my boy?”