tired
and restful.
My nose has wishful moods
when the nostrils imagine sniffing
adventurous smells that I canât quite name
with my dog-words.
Tony, you look wishful too.
Does your boy nose dream
of exploring wild scent trails
in unknown air?
Â
31
TONY THE BOY
DOG YEARS
Summer is the best cure
for worries. Iâm so tired and relaxed
from swimming, hiking, playing
dog games, and learning bear facts
that I can almost sleep
straight through one whole
nightmare-free night.
Maybe thatâs why my dog nose blog
grows more confident
and number-rich
each day,
as I learn that people shed 40,000
skin cells per hour, creating a trail
of scent that a long dog nose
can follow, using all 230 million
scent receptorsâ100,000 times more
sniffing ability than the amount
of smell-skill in a short human nose.
It sounds like magic,
but itâs science.
If I want to study wildlife biology,
or forestry, or veterinary medicine,
Iâll need plenty of courage
to explore the tangled
wilderness of math.
So I try to copy Gabeâs way of facing
each day with the energy of a dogâs
excitement about work-play.
When I hide for SAR dog practice,
I notice the way all dogs love
adventure, but they also need to know
what to expect. Border collies
try to herd me, German shepherds
guard me, and Labs like Gabe
just love to fetch me.
Iâm still trying to figure out how
playful dogs turn into such fiercely
loyal Rescue Beasts
while having so much fun.
Is there a mathematical formula
to explain generosity?
TÃo and the other volunteer
SAR dog handlers are just as amazing.
They have normal jobs in forests, shops,
and offices, but as soon as they reach
a place last seen, they start to seem
like people from a different centuryâ
a time when anyone could get lost
in the wild, and everyone always
joined the search posse.
I want to be just like them.
I crave that brave combination
of beastly toughness
and rugged kindness.
Itâs like moss on a boulder,
hard and soft at the same time,
the same blend Iâll need if Iâm ever
going to be a smart animal doctor
who knows how to cure
wounded dogs.
With thoughts of college and vet school,
I start seeing regular school
as important.
The new semester is a challenge
I almost feel ready to face.
Same classroom, same teacher,
same friendly students,
but I hardly recognize the girls.
They look a lot older, and they act
all gigglyâeven Gracie, who has grown
supertall, weirdly shy, and surprisingly
pretty.
But girls arenât my only confusion.
On September 15, the first day
of Hispanic Heritage Month,
the teacher asks me to speak
to the whole class about my family
and their origins.
But I wasnât born on the island.
Iâm American.
I barely know any Spanish.
How can I tell quaint, folksy tales
about fiestas, feasts, cousins,
and grandmas.â¦
I wonât do it.
I donât belong.
Not here.
Or anywhere.
I canât belong.
Ever.
When I refuse to speak,
the teacher says she understands,
but then Gracie jumps in
and invites TÃo to talk in my place.
He agrees, but only after asking me
if itâs okay. I do mind. I mind a lot,
but I donât want to hurt his feelings,
so I keep my anxiety
secret.
I find myself listening with laser-sharp ears
as TÃo tells the whole class about his life.
My eyes feel blurry, and my mind
has left the room. All I can think about
is Mom hungry, Mom scared,
Mom on a raft, drifting.â¦
Why didnât I ever ask about
her childhood?
If I ask now, will she answer
and if she does, will her answers
be honest?
My birthday is coming soonâmaybe
that will be the perfect chance to try
to get to know more
about Momâs weird past â¦
but on the day when I finally
turn twelve, thereâs no card or call,
no proof that I ever had a mother.
No prison visit either,
but thatâs my choice.
TÃo
and restful.
My nose has wishful moods
when the nostrils imagine sniffing
adventurous smells that I canât quite name
with my dog-words.
Tony, you look wishful too.
Does your boy nose dream
of exploring wild scent trails
in unknown air?
Â
31
TONY THE BOY
DOG YEARS
Summer is the best cure
for worries. Iâm so tired and relaxed
from swimming, hiking, playing
dog games, and learning bear facts
that I can almost sleep
straight through one whole
nightmare-free night.
Maybe thatâs why my dog nose blog
grows more confident
and number-rich
each day,
as I learn that people shed 40,000
skin cells per hour, creating a trail
of scent that a long dog nose
can follow, using all 230 million
scent receptorsâ100,000 times more
sniffing ability than the amount
of smell-skill in a short human nose.
It sounds like magic,
but itâs science.
If I want to study wildlife biology,
or forestry, or veterinary medicine,
Iâll need plenty of courage
to explore the tangled
wilderness of math.
So I try to copy Gabeâs way of facing
each day with the energy of a dogâs
excitement about work-play.
When I hide for SAR dog practice,
I notice the way all dogs love
adventure, but they also need to know
what to expect. Border collies
try to herd me, German shepherds
guard me, and Labs like Gabe
just love to fetch me.
Iâm still trying to figure out how
playful dogs turn into such fiercely
loyal Rescue Beasts
while having so much fun.
Is there a mathematical formula
to explain generosity?
TÃo and the other volunteer
SAR dog handlers are just as amazing.
They have normal jobs in forests, shops,
and offices, but as soon as they reach
a place last seen, they start to seem
like people from a different centuryâ
a time when anyone could get lost
in the wild, and everyone always
joined the search posse.
I want to be just like them.
I crave that brave combination
of beastly toughness
and rugged kindness.
Itâs like moss on a boulder,
hard and soft at the same time,
the same blend Iâll need if Iâm ever
going to be a smart animal doctor
who knows how to cure
wounded dogs.
With thoughts of college and vet school,
I start seeing regular school
as important.
The new semester is a challenge
I almost feel ready to face.
Same classroom, same teacher,
same friendly students,
but I hardly recognize the girls.
They look a lot older, and they act
all gigglyâeven Gracie, who has grown
supertall, weirdly shy, and surprisingly
pretty.
But girls arenât my only confusion.
On September 15, the first day
of Hispanic Heritage Month,
the teacher asks me to speak
to the whole class about my family
and their origins.
But I wasnât born on the island.
Iâm American.
I barely know any Spanish.
How can I tell quaint, folksy tales
about fiestas, feasts, cousins,
and grandmas.â¦
I wonât do it.
I donât belong.
Not here.
Or anywhere.
I canât belong.
Ever.
When I refuse to speak,
the teacher says she understands,
but then Gracie jumps in
and invites TÃo to talk in my place.
He agrees, but only after asking me
if itâs okay. I do mind. I mind a lot,
but I donât want to hurt his feelings,
so I keep my anxiety
secret.
I find myself listening with laser-sharp ears
as TÃo tells the whole class about his life.
My eyes feel blurry, and my mind
has left the room. All I can think about
is Mom hungry, Mom scared,
Mom on a raft, drifting.â¦
Why didnât I ever ask about
her childhood?
If I ask now, will she answer
and if she does, will her answers
be honest?
My birthday is coming soonâmaybe
that will be the perfect chance to try
to get to know more
about Momâs weird past â¦
but on the day when I finally
turn twelve, thereâs no card or call,
no proof that I ever had a mother.
No prison visit either,
but thatâs my choice.
TÃo
Similar Books
