Ruckus Read online

  Dad looks at the guy likes he’s crazy. “Take your rat and stick it where the sun don’t shine,” he says, putting his arm around me. We turn around and walk through the gate, slamming it shut. The beach feels good under our feet. I let Ruckus down on the sand.

  “He really does stink,” I say.

  From the beach, we hear sirens up on the road. Dad rolls his eyes. “I guess we should go talk to them.”

  “Are they going to take Ruckus away?” I ask.

  He laughs. “For killing a rat? I don’t think so.”

  “For trespassing?”

  “You worry too much, buddy,” he says. “I got it covered.”

  “What about Mom?” I whisper.

  “Well…that’s a different kettle of fish,” he says.

  As we walk in the door, Hazel grabs Dad in an enormous hug. “You’re here,” she says. “Mom said you guys were busted by the cops.

  “What’s that smell?” She holds her nose, pointing at Ruckus. “OH, THAT’S AWFUL. Why does he stink like a dead fish?” She looks at me like it’s my fault.

  “Otter poop,” I say.

  Mom is on the phone. We can hear her voice coming from the kitchen.

  “It’s him,” Hazel whispers. “That’s the fifth time he’s called.”

  “Uh-huh,” says Mom, walking toward us. “Yes, Mr. McGregor. Thanks for telling me. I’ll do something right away. Yes. Yes. I understand.”

  Mom looks at Dad. “You accosted our neighbor?”

  “He didn’t do anything,” I say.

  “The cops were cool,” he says. “We worked it out.”

  She turns to me, her face red. “You’re grounded for a month. You will walk to school and home. That’s it. After dinner you will walk around the block with Ruckus. You are not going to the beach. You are not ever to step foot on Mr. McGregor’s property again.”

  “Go easy,” says Dad.

  “Easy?” says Mom. “I’m doing the parenting here. And there’s nothing easy about it.”

  “But Mom,” I say.

  “No buts,” she says. “And what is this about a tag? What happened to Ruckus’s tag?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe when he got into the otter poop, he lost it.”

  Hazel is making motions behind Mom’s head like I shouldn’t say any more, but it’s a bit late now.

  “Bathe him,” Mom says to me. “Get the stink out or else.”

  Dad stays all day. He takes Hazel out shopping. Then he and Mom spend some time together, just the two of them. They have things to talk about. Then he catches the ferry. At dinner Mom is kind of quiet.

  Hazel kicks my foot.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I say, pushing my corn around my plate. “I’ll keep a better eye on Ruckus from now on.”

  Dad always says there’s a point where you should just shut up and say you’re sorry. He says even if you have a really good reason for doing what you do, not everyone sees it the same way. Especially Mom. If you see it one way, she’s going to see it the opposite.

  “Well, we got through it,” she says. “That’s what’s important. We hit these bumps and we plow through.”

  Hazel and I look at each other.

  “Your dad won’t be back for a little while,” says Mom. “He’s going to California for a couple of months. He’d like to try living there now that fire season is over. He’s got some friends in the construction business.”

  My stomach drops. California is even farther away than Vancouver.

  “What does he know about construction?” asks Hazel.

  “He says he wants to learn.” Mom chews slowly, like she needs to grind her meat down to dust.

  Dad never said anything about the States. He left it for Mom to tell us. He’s going away for a couple of months and he didn’t tell us. He does that, I realize. He likes to tell us good stuff, but not the bad stuff.

  “I’m not mad at you,” says Mom, looking at me. “I just want you to be careful. Keep Ruckus on a leash for a while. A dog is a big responsibility.”

  I swallow hard. “I know, Mom.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ruckus and I are in the doghouse. All week we’ve been tiptoeing around Mom. I’ve been making my bed and picking up my socks. I don’t want to be grounded until I’m Hazel’s age. Ruckus doesn’t want to go back to the breeder’s. Which is what happens to dogs that are bad.

  Hazel told me that. “You give the dog back to the breeder and they find a new home for him.”

  “Who gives him back?”

  “Well, the family that doesn’t want him anymore.”

  “Who would ever do that?”

  I’ll die before I let that happen to Ruckus.

  I make a list for Mom to remind her of all his good points. I post it on the fridge, so she’ll see it first thing.

  Mom is humming when she walks into the kitchen the next morning. She’s wearing jeans rolled up at the bottom and her Vans. She has a T-shirt with a star in the middle. I wait for her to say something about Ruckus, the Jack Russell terror. But…nothing. She goes to the bottom of the stairs and calls for Hazel.

  When she comes back she opens the fridge, pausing to read the list. “Hmmm,” she says. “How about eggs? I think we all need a good breakfast this morning before we head out.”

  “Are we going somewhere?” I ask.

  “We are,” she says. She whips some eggs in a bowl and pours them into a pan.

  Hazel throws herself into a seat and helps herself to a big pile of scrambled eggs. “Where?” she asks.

  “It’s a surprise,” says Mom. “It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”

  Ruckus puts a paw on my knee. He’s not supposed to beg at the table, and I push him away. “On your mat,” I tell him.

  He stares at me.

  “Sit,” I say.

  He stares.

  Mom is watching him, one eyebrow arched. Usually she’d put Ruckus in his pen. She’d say something about him never doing what he’s told. I look over at Hazel. She’s looking at Ruckus too. He nudges my hand for food.

  Mom gets up from the table and fills her travel mug with coffee. She grabs her keys. “I’ll be out in the bus when you’re ready. Oh, and bring Ruckus. He’s coming too. We’re all going for a ride.”

  The front door slams. Hazel and I exchange looks.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Mom didn’t say anything to me.” Hazel bites her lip like she doesn’t want to tell me something but it’s there on the tip of her tongue.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s just something she said the other night. She said Ruckus brings a lot of chaos into our lives.”

  “Bad chaos or good chaos?” I ask.

  “Is there a good kind?” my sister asks, scratching her head.

  “She’d tell us if she was thinking of giving him back,” I say. “She’d call a family meeting. We’d all get a vote.”

  “We didn’t get a vote on Dad and her,” Hazel says, her eyes lowered. “We didn’t get a vote on Dad going to California.”

  She has a point. I can’t eat anything. I shove the rest of my eggs between two pieces of toast and wrap it all in a napkin. If Ruckus and I have to make a run for it, we might need food. There’s no way I’m letting anyone take him from me.

  I grab his harness, pull it over his head and snap on his leash. In our VW bus I put him in his crate. On the seat beside me is his duffel bag. In it are all his toys—his stuffed tick, orange ball, ropey tug thing, bunny without any stuffing.

  If all his stuff is here, Mom must be taking him back.

  She turns on the ignition and adjusts the rearview mirror. “Everyone set?”

  I get a lump in my throat the size of Jupiter. I grab the seat belt and jam the ends together. I swipe the tears from my eyes. I have a whole car ride to talk her out of it.

  “Ruckus has been really good all morning,” I say. “He ate all his food. And he peed. He pooped too.”

 
“Good,” she says, pulling the Volkswagen away from the curb.

  “Where did you say we were going?” asks Hazel. She always twists her long hair to one side when she’s anxious. She’s doing it now.

  “Saanich,” Mom says.

  “Where you got Ruckus?” I ask.

  “Shhh, no more questions,” says Mom.

  She speeds past the mall and out of the city. The VW makes a chugging sound as she gets its speed up to eighty kilometers an hour. She clicks on the radio and hums along. She turns off the highway and onto a road that winds through farmland. We pass a sign that says Organic Eggs $4.

  “On the way back I’ll get some of those,” she says.

  Eggs. How can she think of eggs at a time like this?

  I poke my fingers through Ruckus’s crate. His teeth chew the ends of my fingers, but not hard. “You’re a good dog,” I tell him, loud enough for Mom to hear. “You know how to fetch. You’re friendly with other dogs. You don’t smell. You like everybody. You’re smart.”

  Mom looks at me in the rearview mirror. “I hope he’s smart.”

  She’s slowing down. She’s pulling into a farm. Horses graze in the front field. There’s a barn and a gravel parking lot. There’s a gate, and behind the gate are Jack Russells, about five of them, all jumping and barking.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “This is where I got Ruckus,” Mom says. “This is the breeder’s.”

  “NO!” I yell, throwing my arms around Ruckus’s crate.

  Mom spins around, her eyes startled.

  “WE AREN’T GIVING HIM BACK,” I shout. My eyes start to sting, and I can’t breathe.

  “Who said anything about giving him back?” says Mom.

  “Isn’t that what you want to do?” I say, wiping my nose. “Give him back?”

  “No,” she says. “This is a class for dogs. It’s called an agility class. The breeder thought it would help Ruckus focus his energy.”

  I swallow hard.

  “It’s a good surprise,” says Hazel. “Isn’t it, Reece?”

  “Yeah,” I say, barely breathing.

  “It’s where they go through tunnels and over jumps,” says Mom, her voice gentle. “It’s supposed to be really fun.”

  She flings open the door, and she and Hazel climb out. The breeder walks up to the VW and shakes Mom’s hand.

  I open the crate, grab hold of Ruckus and squeeze him. “Looks like you’re going to school.”

  When I get out of the van, I’m smiling like a goof. I try to get my face to go normal, but it keeps on smiling. All around me, cars are pulling into the lot. Dogs are straining on their leashes or jumping on their owners. Wild, crazy dogs just like ours.

  By the end of the lesson Ruckus is doing things I never thought he’d do. He’s walking around a pylon, first one way and then the next. He’s got his front paws on a small stool and is shuffling his butt around. He looks like a circus dog.

  “Let’s put him back in the crate,” says the trainer, her hands on her hips. She is really good. All business. Ruckus respects her.

  I throw a piece of cheese inside his crate, and he dives in. I close the door behind him. He did it. We all did. Even Mom got into the ring and made Ruckus sit and pay attention to her.

  On the ride home Mom and Hazel talk about the lesson, their voices rising and falling. All I know is that Ruckus is a rock star. That’s what the trainer called him. She said dogs like him, who put their whole heart into it, are the best to train.

  I look inside the crate. Ruckus is fast asleep, that deep sleep where he lies on his side with all his feet stretched out. Mom says agility class is every Saturday morning. She says it’s going to save our lives. “No more chaos. Thanks to Dad.”

  “Dad?” I ask.

  “It was his idea,” says Mom. “And he paid for it.”

  “He’s still going to be in our lives, right?” asks Hazel.

  “Of course,” says Mom.

  “Are you guys staying apart for good?” I ask.

  The question just jumps out of my mouth. I don’t know why. I guess I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and it didn’t want to stay inside anymore. I hold my breath, waiting for Mom to answer.

  “I think we’re happier this way,” she says. “Living apart. It took a few months to realize it, but we’re sure. We’re both really sure.”

  I let my breath out slowly. “Okay,” I say. “I just wanted to know the plan. It was hard not knowing.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” she says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “I wish I could have known sooner.”

  “That’s okay, Mom,” says Hazel.

  “One more thing,” I say.

  Hazel throws me a hard look, but I need to know.

  “Would you ever give Ruckus back?” I ask.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” says Mom. “He’s stuck with us. We’re family, and we take care of each other.”

  I lean back in my seat. “You hear that?”

  Ruckus is snoring. His tail is flipping around his butt like he’s dreaming good things. His jaws open and snap shut.

  We get to keep our Jack Russell terror.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the talented and supportive Wildwood Writers: Kari Jones, Julie Paul and Alisa Gordaneer. We have written together for years, taken courses together and critiqued one another’s work. Every writer needs a village, and they are mine.

  I’d like to acknowledge the support of Liz Kemp at Orca Book Publishers for her editing skills and encouragement. Thank you to my husband, Clay, for his big-hearted love of our crazy dog. And to the dog, thank you for the way you dive into life nose first, tail spinning with excitement.

  Laurie Elmquist holds an MA in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Windsor in Ontario. She enjoys writing for kids, and she is the author of Beach Baby, Forest Baby and Where’s Burgess?, which was inspired by a Lost Frog poster she saw on a camping trip. Laurie teaches at Camosun College in Victoria, British Columbia, and is an online instructor for the University of Calgary in Alberta.