Mountain Dog by Margarita Engle Page A

bakes a carrot cake, and gives me
    a brand-new laptop, and the warmest
    hug
    of my life.
    Then B.B. gives me a grinning
    photo of Gabe, a picture that brings tears
    of happiness to my eyes, but I don’t
    actually cry, because Gracie chooses
    that moment to give me a silly poem

    about the clumsy way
    baby elephants play
    while they’re learning
    how to control all 40,000
    clunky muscles
    in their trunkies.
    After that, we sing and howl off-key.
    It’s the first time anyone has ever
    called my birthday
    happy.
    This story of turning twelve will be great,
    when I tell it on my dog nose blog,
    with my new laptop, using plenty
    of numbers that no longer remind me
    of winners and losers
    in long-ago fights.
    When I sit down to write,
    I say that Gabe is exactly half my age,
    but he’s also 6 times 7 = 42,
    old and wise
    in dog years—almost ancient—
    but age doesn’t stop him
    from celebrating. All through
    my whole birthday, he’s the one
    who helps me laugh
    by grinning
    as we gobble
    messy frosting.
    If only birthdays could last
    forever. But they don’t last.
    Nothing lasts. Suddenly,
    the forest
    is no longer
    peaceful.

 
    32
    GABE THE DOG
    EXPLOSIONS
    Each boom rhymes
    with the smell
    of danger.
    Worse than thunder.
    Worse than yelling.
    I would hide in the closet
    forever
    if my Leo didn’t keep patting me
    and reminding me
    that it’s just the same
    mean noise
    we hear
    every year.

 
    33
    TONY THE BOY
    TRAIL NAMES
    Hunting season opens
    with gunfire at dawn.
    Frightened deer hide
    in our vegetable garden.
    A desperate bear scratches
    at the cabin door.
    At first Gabe hides, but then
    he goes crazy with fear, barking
    and growling. He sounds like
    a pit bull. He sounds
    like Mom.
    Gunshots and snarls
    bring old nightmares
    rushing back.
    Why do I always
    have to start over
    again
    and again
    struggling
    to be free
    of the past?
    Tío shakes me awake to say
    that he’s leaving, and at first
    I assume he means forever …
    but it’s just another call-out
    for a search.
    As usual, I go with my uncle
    to a safe base camp at a trailhead,
    even though this time, the forest
    is scary.
    Hunting season means danger
    for searchers, who have to keep
    their dogs close, and make noise
    with whistles, to warn hunters
    who might otherwise mistake
    any movement
    for a deer
    or a bear.
    When I find out that Tío and Gabe
    have to search for a lost hunter
    who went out with six hounds,
    I’m furious. Hunting doesn’t
    seem fair, to either the dogs
    or the bear.
    Bear hounds are trained to follow
    a scent, running so fast and so far
    that they often get lost. Even dogs
    get mixed up when a chase is swift
    and frenzied. Dog noses are smart,
    but not perfect.
    Bear hounds are supposed to chase
    a bear up a tree, where it’s easy
    to shoot. This time, one of the hounds
    got lost, and then the frantic hunter
    lost his way too, running around,
    trying to find his missing dog.
    Now, the hunter’s wife
    is at base camp, crying
    and complaining
    about his dangerous
    way of enjoying
    the outdoors.
    I look around at B.B., Gracie,
    the sheriffs, and volunteers.
    Everyone looks busy and useful
    except me.
    All I can think about is the hound.
    I feel a lot more troubled by the thought
    of a helpless dog than by the image
    of a lost hunter
    who still has his gun.
    Instead of waiting by the crowded
    base camp table, I start wandering
    with a flashlight, hoping to see
    canine paw prints.
    Still hoping, I roam farther
    and farther, first on the main trail,
    then narrower paths that fade
    until suddenly, I know
    I’ve messed up.
    Now I’m lost too.
    There’s no trail at all.
    I’m surrounded by wildness.
    That’s how it happens—
    one path leads to another.
    So you choose, you walk,
    you choose again,
    and pretty soon,
    there’s no
    turning back.
    I don’t have a GPS, or even a map
    and compass. I hardly know anything
    about navigation by