after we put him in a holding kennel.”
“He WHAT!” I screamed, working up as much fake anger as I possibly could, my acting falling short of an Oscar, but better than a People’s Choice Award. Maybe Golden Globe-ish. “How could you possibly let that happen?”
Officer Aguilera had no idea how much Tread loved to take off his tail and chew on it for a while. One of the benefits of being a zombie dog, having your favorite bone attached to you.
“We let nothing happen. He’d been in a kennel for thirty minutes or so, and when we went to check on him, his tail no longer was in place.”
“You have to take him to a vet!”
“We thought of that, but he refused to give us his tail. He was gnawing on it. Like a bone. As if this was nothing new. He didn’t seem to be in any pain.”
“That’s no excuse, he needs treatment,” I said, the urgency in my voice falling off a cliff.
“This is what we’re going to do… ” Officer Aguilera straightened his arms and leaned forward. “We are going to keep your dog for a while. His, let us say, ‘unnaturalness’ concerns us. And if he proves to be the threat I think he is, he will be destroyed.”
“No, you can’t—”
“We most certainly can. You have the right to appeal to your U.S. consulate, which might be very interested in seeing the dog in question. They could have even more questions than I have. You have a decision to make.”
He stood. “You are free to go. We have all your contact information from your forms and will be in touch as to our final determination.”
Dad opened the door and walked out as if everything had come to an end.
But it hadn’t. Not by a long shot.
Chapter Nine
I was sitting on bird poop, but I didn’t care. I promised Dad I’d stay in the light and within sight of our hotel room, and that limited my options to the bench just off the parking lot under a streetlamp that obviously was a very popular rest stop for the local winged community.
Convincing Dad I needed some time alone was easy. He’d always been sympathetic, like the time Mom forced me to take off the Night of the Living Dead T-shirt I wanted to wear to sixth-grade graduation.
“Just because you’re undead is no reason to flaunt it, especially at such an important occasion,” Mom had said.
“Important occasion?” I argued. “I’m going from sixth to seventh grade. It’s like we’re celebrating basic math with cake and phony diplomas.”
Dad stepped in. “Hon, he’s right. I can understand teachers marking the moment, since it means they’re getting rid of another bunch of attitude-filled sixth graders. But it is not so momentous that our child should not celebrate his heritage.”
“Yeah,” I said, “my heritage ,” emphasizing the last word even though I was not sure what it meant in the scheme of things. But it sounded important.
And Dad showed up a few hours later when I was kicked out for wearing an inappropriate shirt, and I had a big smile on my face when I handed him my sixth-grade diploma.
That was the part of my dad that agreed to get a hotel for a night, to visit customs the next day and plead our case. Luke was on board, since he equated “hotel” with “food delivered right to your room, and you can eat on the bed because someone else is going to clean the sheets.”
Convincing Luke I needed to be alone took a call to room service. I slipped out when the tray was delivered, since all I’d ordered was fries, knowing how happy Luke would be.
I sat alone with my thoughts. I didn’t count the million moths flitting in the lamp, filtering the light until it became a muddy gray by the time it reached the ground. Every now and then a car went by, and it only reminded me how much Tread loved to go for rides, sticking his head out the window, and I would take off his ears so they wouldn’t blow away, stuffing them in my pocket to reattach them later.
I’d gone through a fire for Tread, risking my life (sort of)
“He WHAT!” I screamed, working up as much fake anger as I possibly could, my acting falling short of an Oscar, but better than a People’s Choice Award. Maybe Golden Globe-ish. “How could you possibly let that happen?”
Officer Aguilera had no idea how much Tread loved to take off his tail and chew on it for a while. One of the benefits of being a zombie dog, having your favorite bone attached to you.
“We let nothing happen. He’d been in a kennel for thirty minutes or so, and when we went to check on him, his tail no longer was in place.”
“You have to take him to a vet!”
“We thought of that, but he refused to give us his tail. He was gnawing on it. Like a bone. As if this was nothing new. He didn’t seem to be in any pain.”
“That’s no excuse, he needs treatment,” I said, the urgency in my voice falling off a cliff.
“This is what we’re going to do… ” Officer Aguilera straightened his arms and leaned forward. “We are going to keep your dog for a while. His, let us say, ‘unnaturalness’ concerns us. And if he proves to be the threat I think he is, he will be destroyed.”
“No, you can’t—”
“We most certainly can. You have the right to appeal to your U.S. consulate, which might be very interested in seeing the dog in question. They could have even more questions than I have. You have a decision to make.”
He stood. “You are free to go. We have all your contact information from your forms and will be in touch as to our final determination.”
Dad opened the door and walked out as if everything had come to an end.
But it hadn’t. Not by a long shot.
Chapter Nine
I was sitting on bird poop, but I didn’t care. I promised Dad I’d stay in the light and within sight of our hotel room, and that limited my options to the bench just off the parking lot under a streetlamp that obviously was a very popular rest stop for the local winged community.
Convincing Dad I needed some time alone was easy. He’d always been sympathetic, like the time Mom forced me to take off the Night of the Living Dead T-shirt I wanted to wear to sixth-grade graduation.
“Just because you’re undead is no reason to flaunt it, especially at such an important occasion,” Mom had said.
“Important occasion?” I argued. “I’m going from sixth to seventh grade. It’s like we’re celebrating basic math with cake and phony diplomas.”
Dad stepped in. “Hon, he’s right. I can understand teachers marking the moment, since it means they’re getting rid of another bunch of attitude-filled sixth graders. But it is not so momentous that our child should not celebrate his heritage.”
“Yeah,” I said, “my heritage ,” emphasizing the last word even though I was not sure what it meant in the scheme of things. But it sounded important.
And Dad showed up a few hours later when I was kicked out for wearing an inappropriate shirt, and I had a big smile on my face when I handed him my sixth-grade diploma.
That was the part of my dad that agreed to get a hotel for a night, to visit customs the next day and plead our case. Luke was on board, since he equated “hotel” with “food delivered right to your room, and you can eat on the bed because someone else is going to clean the sheets.”
Convincing Luke I needed to be alone took a call to room service. I slipped out when the tray was delivered, since all I’d ordered was fries, knowing how happy Luke would be.
I sat alone with my thoughts. I didn’t count the million moths flitting in the lamp, filtering the light until it became a muddy gray by the time it reached the ground. Every now and then a car went by, and it only reminded me how much Tread loved to go for rides, sticking his head out the window, and I would take off his ears so they wouldn’t blow away, stuffing them in my pocket to reattach them later.
I’d gone through a fire for Tread, risking my life (sort of)
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