Ruckus Read online

  I want to tell Dad how much I love him, but it feels weird saying it over the phone, so I just grunt.

  “And buddy, call me if they don’t come out tomorrow. We’ll go to plan B.”

  “What’s plan B?”

  “X-ray, surgery, whatever it takes. Tell your ma to call me.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” He gets it. He gets that Ruckus is counting on us to figure things out. Even if it means going to the vet.

  “Bye, Dad,” I say.

  After I finish talking to him, I pull out my homework. Ruckus jumps on me and licks my face so hard I can’t breathe. He gets his tongue right inside my nose, like he’s trying to reach my brain. He’s been chewing his pig’s ear.

  “Okay, Smelly Breath,” I tell him. “Okay, okay.”

  In bed, I can hear Mom on the phone. Her voice comes up through a vent in my floor. She’s asking Dad for money. I can tell because her voice gets louder, and she sounds really serious. Last month it was for school supplies, and the month before it was for Hazel’s braces.

  My sister has a lot of big teeth in her head, and she had to have some of them removed so the front ones could be pulled back. She looks less like a gopher now, but her teeth are still big. She says big teeth are more attractive than tiny teeth. Hollywood stars have big chompers. “You’ll need braces too,” she said.

  “Will not,” I said.

  “Whatever,” she said, which means she thinks she’s right but can’t be bothered to talk to me anymore.

  I push my front teeth back with my thumb. Maybe I can save Dad some money and just push them back every night. That way we could take the money and spend it on Ruckus. Maybe we should have some kind of SAVE RUCKUS fund because he does stupid things like eat things he shouldn’t.

  I hear Mom’s voice getting louder and louder. “The dog was your idea, and now I have to find a way to pay for him.”

  I don’t hear what Dad says, but I wish he could talk to Mom like he does to me. I wish he could explain things and make her happy.

  Hazel said I shouldn’t get my hopes up. She said Dad and Mom will not be getting back together, because Dad is too immature. He hasn’t figured out what he wants in life.

  “But he makes her laugh sometimes,” I said.

  “He makes everyone laugh, not just Mom.”

  She said it like it was a bad thing, and I haven’t figured out why. Making people laugh is a good thing. That’s why I make comics and tell jokes at school. It always makes everything better. If I don’t know the answer to something, sometimes I can get away with a joke. Then I bounce the question over to Aaron, my best friend. He usually knows the answer.

  I listen hard. Mom’s voice is getting loud again. Then silence, like she’s off the phone.

  I pet Ruckus. He’s curled against my stomach under the covers. He’s warm and soft. Holding onto him makes me less anxious. I can feel his hot breath on my hands. Do parents ever get back together? Everyone says it never happens.

  Chapter Five

  In the morning I stand outside on the curb and wait for Ruckus to do his business. He’s sniffing the grass. He’s circling around. Then he stops and sits. He stares across the road at another dog.

  “We have to go,” says Mom.

  “He hasn’t done anything yet,” I say. “We have to wait for the sardines to kick in.”

  Our neighbor is putting out his recycling. Ruckus watches him. He woofs low at the back of his throat. Mom doesn’t like it when he barks, so now he fake-barks. A quiet whoof, whoof, whoof.

  Mom opens the door of the Volkswagen bus and climbs in. She starts the engine, and a puff of smoke pops out the muffler. “Come on,” she says. “There’s no more time.”

  I slide the door open and load Ruckus into his crate. Hazel piles the posters in beside me and jumps into the passenger seat. We are going to Mom’s big march on the Legislature. It’s an important building in Victoria where the government meets. It’s also where people demonstrate about things they believe in.

  Mom’s been working on her speech for months. She wants big companies to reduce their packaging. She says it’s up to us consumers to put our money where it will do the most good. No plastic containers. She wants everyone to think about growing their own vegetables. Yank up the grass and plant your salad greens. But where are all the dogs going to pee if we yank up the grass?

  Ruckus whines in his crate. He doesn’t care about recycling. He’d rather be at the beach. I feel that way too, but I can’t say anything or Hazel will glare at me and call me selfish. She says it’s important to support Mom because of all the things she does for us.

  I don’t know why the sardines didn’t work. Maybe Dad was wrong, and the earrings are never going to come out on their own. We pull into a parking spot. Mom glances back at Ruckus. “I’m not happy about bringing him, but it’s just for an hour or two.”

  “I’ve got him,” I say.

  Hazel and Mom unload the posters. A bunch of people come over to help. It’s Mom’s team. They’re all wearing T-shirts with a vegetable garden on the front. On the back the T-shirts say, They paved paradise and put up a parking lot, so we’re fighting back with urban gardens.

  “Kind of wordy,” I say.

  “Can’t say everything in two words,” says Mom.

  The Legislature sits up on a hill with a big green lawn in front of it. There are lots of people wearing sun hats and carrying posters. There’s even a giant Poop walking around. It’s a guy in a brown costume. He is protesting the pollution of the ocean. Some cities dump raw sewage straight into the harbor. A lot of people think it’s wrong.

  Ruckus is pulling on his leash, looking at the giant Poop. Maybe he thinks it’s some kind of big wiener dog or something. I try to get him under control, but he’s jumping and biting my hands. He wants to go over to where the giant Poop is standing. Right in the middle of the grass.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, giving in.

  His tail is wagging, and he lunges across the lawn. In a few seconds we’re at the giant Poop’s side. He’s handing out pamphlets, and he gives me one. Ruckus sniffs at Poop’s sneakers. Then he starts to sniff at the grass. Then he starts to circle around, his butt low to the ground.

  Surrounded by people and right at the feet of the giant Poop, Ruckus squats. And poops. It is a giant poop. It smells terrible, and it squirts, and everyone takes a giant step backward. Even the giant Poop, who holds his hands up to his fake nose.

  My face turns beet red. I wish a giant spaceship would show up right about now and beam me up. I look around for Mom and Hazel, but they are too far away to help. There’s only one thing to do. I get out my bag. I scoop it up, yanking up a handful of grass with it. I twirl the bag around and knot it.

  Then I squish it, feeling for the earrings.

  As a small crowd watches, I squish, squish, squish. Then I feel something. Something small and hard. Rock hard. I follow the rock-hard thing down a slender stick to the part at the end that holds the earring on. “They’re in here!” I hold up the poop in triumph.

  Everyone stares at me like I’m crazy, but I don’t care. Ruckus and I are running. An all-out sprint across the big green lawn, the poop bag bouncing against my leg. We have to find Mom and tell her.

  I run toward her, waving the bag. She’s just about to climb the podium to make her speech. She cups her hand to her ear.

  “Mom, I found your earrings!” I yell.

  She taps the microphone. “Can everyone hear me?”

  I thrust the bag into her hands. “They’re right here,” I say. “Your earrings. I feel them.”

  She looks out over the crowd, “It seems my son has recovered my earrings, which the dog ate.” She hands me back the bag and whispers, “Good job.”

  The crowd laughs.

  “Now, with that business attended to, shall we move on?” she asks, her voice echoing across the lawn.

  Ruckus pulls me away. He doesn’t like crowds. He’d rather be sitting under a big tree and waiting for Mom. Me t
oo. Plus, I’m carrying the bag. And it’s still kind of smelly. Luckily, I have my backpack, and I put the bag in there for safekeeping.

  Sardines. Dad was right. Ruckus crawls onto my lap and closes his eyes. It’s been a big day for him. It’s not every day he poops diamonds. Or protests at the Legislature.

  Chapter Six

  Dad is here. He arrived late last night. I found him on the couch when I woke up, his big toes sticking up from the blanket. Ruckus looks at the lump on the couch and starts barking.

  “Shhh, it’s Dad,” I tell him.

  Dad stirs, and his voice rumbles out from under the covers. “Is that him? The terror? You going to give your old man a hug or what?”

  I jump on him. Ruckus does too. He’s snapping and lunging at Dad’s hands. He’s licking my chin, then Dad’s. “Don’t bite,” I say. “Don’t bite.”

  Dad holds him up in the air so he can’t do anything. Ruckus shows his Tyrannosaurus rex teeth and growls.

  “You pipsqueak,” he says. “What do you weigh? Fifteen pounds? I got a thigh that weighs more than you.”

  Ruckus cocks his head like he’s listening. He stops wriggling. I think he knows Dad’s the Big Dog. Dad kind of looks like a big dog, too. His hair is long. He’s got a beard.

  “I’m going to grow my hair long like yours,” I say.

  “Better check with your ma first,” he says, setting Ruckus down on the floor. “She might have something to say about it.”

  He squeezes me in one of his bear hugs, so hard I think my ribs are going to break, but it’s a good feeling, like my head is going to pop off with happiness.

  “What are we doing today?” he asks.

  Dad and I are early birds. We get up before Mom and Hazel, which is a good thing, because Hazel will drag Dad shopping as soon as she sees him.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Told you I was coming soon,” he says, raking his hair with his hands.

  “Yeah,” I say. “You did.”

  “So let me wash up a bit and what? We’ll hit the beach? I’ll grab my guitar. Maybe you can get us something to eat, put it in a sack.”

  “We have to take Ruckus,” I say. “It’s my job in the morning to walk him.”

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “Bring the dog along. Maybe he can go for a swim or something.”

  “He doesn’t swim yet,” I yell after him. “The waves are pretty big down there.”

  Dad’s singing in the washroom. He splashes around in the bathroom like a sea lion. Mom is a lot quieter. I never noticed that before. Dad brings a lot of noise with him.

  You’d think otters wouldn’t stink so bad. They swim in the ocean. Their brown fur is sleek and shiny. But their dens stink. “Ruckus!” I yell. “Get out of there.”

  The den is on the beach, but higher up in the grass. Ruckus is rolling his nose in crab shells. Then his body. He’s pushing himself sideways along the grass. I grab him and hook him on his leash. I know we’re in trouble.

  “We have to go home,” I tell Dad.

  “But we just got here,” he says. “What about our breakfast?” He holds up the bag of bagels. His guitar is slung over his shoulder.

  “He stinks like a dead rat,” I tell him.

  “Put him in the ocean.”

  I take Ruckus down to the water and throw a stick. He dives in. He coughs and splutters. He goes in deeper than he’s ever gone before. He stretches his little skinny neck out to the stick. He’s not afraid of anything. But I don’t want him to go too far. I wade in and nab the stick before it floats out of reach. I throw it toward the shore.

  “How does he smell now?” asks Dad.

  “Like a rotting corpse,” I say.

  “But better, right?” Dad strums a chord. I lay with my back to a log, feeling the sun on my face. I don’t want to leave either. As long as Ruckus isn’t bothering anybody, it’s okay. Not like there’s tons of people down here right now. Just the usual dog walkers. Dad bends over his guitar, the chords sounding sweet and easy.

  A group of women stands in a circle on the beach with their dogs. One of them has a big dog, a Rhodesian ridgeback. Ruckus likes big dogs. I see his ears perk up. I whistle for him, but it’s too late. He’s already made a beeline for it.

  Dad doesn’t care. He keeps playing, and it makes me not care either. Ruckus jumps around the ridgeback, and they chase each other in circles. The lady walks toward us. She’s wearing a jean jacket and flowery tights. Her reddish-brown hair shines in the sunlight.

  “You boys are up early,” she says.

  She usually sees me around this time, so I’m not sure why this morning is any different, but she’s not really looking at me. She’s looking at Dad.

  He nods and smiles but goes on playing.

  Ruckus runs at our feet, jumping on the lady. She’s got treats in her pocket, and she brings one out for him. “Oh, that’s horrible,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “He’s rolled in something.”

  “Yup,” I say. “He stinks.”

  She backs up and keeps on backing up. I don’t mind. I don’t mind when she leashes her dog and drags it to the opposite end of the beach. I like it when it’s just Dad and me. He starts into a new song, and this time he sings the words. I sit beside him, singing them too.

  At first I don’t notice that Ruckus is gone. He just slipped away. It must have been when Dad was showing me how to make the chord. Press this string with the baby finger, this one with the next two fingers. It was hard to keep the strings from buzzing.

  I shield my eyes against the sun. “Dad, where’s Ruckus?” I ask.

  He looks around. “Can’t see him,” he says, putting his guitar over his shoulder. “I suppose that’s a bad thing.”

  “Yup,” I say, scanning the houses that stand above the beach. “Could be really bad.”

  We run along the beach, calling his name and peering into backyards. Some of them are wild and tangled yards behind small wooden fences that would be easy to jump over. Some of them are manicured lawns with sharply trimmed bushes and water fountains. These ones are usually behind wire fences with locked gates. One of these gates is open.

  I know the man who lives here. Well, I don’t know him, but his name is Mr. McGregor, and he’s a creep. He stands behind his fence and yells down at people to get off his property, even though the beach is not his property. Still, he yells stuff like, “You people don’t pay taxes. When you pay my taxes, you can walk on my land.”

  Hazel once yelled back, “We’re kids. Kids don’t pay taxes.”

  But it didn’t make any difference.

  This morning his yard is quiet. Dad and I take a few steps inside the open gate. My heart is thumping. Maybe Mr. McGregor has the place booby-trapped. Maybe we’re going to lose a leg in a bear trap. What if Ruckus is caught in a trap?

  “Ruck-us,” I call.

  “RUCKUS!” Dad yells.

  I see something move. A flash of black and white, close to the house. It looks like Ruckus’s head. Only there’s something weird. Something in his mouth. He’s acting really strange, and he’s hunkered down. He has something.

  “What you got, fella?” asks Dad, creeping up on him.

  A window shoots open and Mr. McGregor sticks his head out. “Get off my property! This is private property, and you can’t trespass. I’m calling the police.”

  “Whoa,” says Dad, holding out his hand. “We’re just getting our dog here. We’re not doing any harm.”

  “You got a dog?” he asks.

  I wish I’d told Dad that there’s one thing Mr. McGregor hates more than people. Dogs. Especially if they’re loose and running on his property.

  “Get that dog off my land!” yells Mr. McGregor. His face is red, and the veins in his head are bulging. He’s bald. His head is shaped like a moon, and his face has craters like its surface. When he gets mad he balloons up even more, like all the blood is rushing to his head. One of these days he’s going to pop, and th
ere will be brains everywhere.

  “Gladly,” says Dad. “But it looks like he’s got something there.”

  The window slams shut and a door opens. Mr. McGregor is wearing his pajamas, and he’s holding a big fishnet. He’s going to throw it over Ruckus like a salmon.

  “If that dog has my cat in his mouth, he’s dead,” says Mr. McGregor, lunging toward Ruckus.

  Dad gets to Mr. McGregor before he can strike with his net. He catches his arm and holds it in the air. “Now,” he says, “let’s just take this one step at a time. I believe our dog has something of yours in its mouth, but it’s no cat.”

  Ruckus is crouched near a cedar hedge. He is hunkered over something furry. Bigger than a mouse, smaller than a cat. I hope it’s not a bunny.

  “Bring it here,” I say, creeping closer.

  He picks it up in his mouth and moves backs. He lets out a low growl like he does when he has a sock. But it’s no sock.

  “Come here, boy,” says Dad.

  Ruckus backs up even farther.

  Mr. McGregor is on his phone. “Accosted in my own yard,” he says. “You get a cruiser over here.”

  I don’t know what accosted means, but it can’t be good.

  I circle in behind Ruckus. It worked once when Hazel distracted him with treats. I motion for Dad to stay out in front. He keeps talking to him nice and low. “Good boy,” I hear him saying. “That’s a good boy. You got something to show me.”

  I leap on him and scoop him up. He’s got the thing in his mouth, and I see what it is now. A rat. It’s a big dead one, with a long tail.

  “Drop it!” I order.

  I take him over to the fountain and shake him above it. It works with the bathtub because he’s afraid of baths. I dangle him out far from my body. He doesn’t like all that air around him.

  He drops the rat.

  I clip his leash on and hug him tight.

  “That dog’s a menace,” says Mr. McGregor, stomping up to me. He shakes his fist in my face. “He’s got no tag. Do you see that? No license.”