Stand Tall (16 page)

Lassie was sitting on her rock, watching Bradley instead of the TV lizard.

The doorbell rang.

Mom got up, opened the front door.

The Trash King stood there holding a salami. He grinned.

“Are you kids back together?”

“We’re
just
having dinner.”

Dad closed his eyes.

“Well, you never know what these things can lead to, Jan. Just be open to the world of second chances.” He winked. “That’s what keeps me in business.”

He walked into the dining room. “Leo, I brought a salami.”

“And I brought bread,” said Mrs. Clitter.

“Okay,” Sophie shouted from the next room. “Lassie’s doing the dance.”

Lassie was bobbing her head like the TV lizard.

“She just needed a role model. She needed to know she wasn’t the only lizard in the world.”

Sophie’s bobbing now, too.

The Trash King got out his Swiss army knife, cut hunks of salami, handed them around.

From the dining room he could see Sophie bobbing. “Do the dance, Lassie. Do it.”

“Who’s that kid?”

“That’s what we’re all wondering,” said Dad.

Grandpa reached down, took off his prosthetic leg. It was hurting him. He put it on the table. “I like her. She’s got her own style.”

The Trash King looked at the leg. “Leo, if you ever decide you don’t want that leg, I could sell it to a person who has vision.”

“You could turn it into a lamp,” Mom suggested.

“Or hang it over the fireplace,” Dad offered.

Bradley trotted in, took one look at the leg on the table, lowered his tail, and backed out of the room.

Mom and Dad smiled at each other and laughed.

It was a sound Tree hadn’t heard from them in the longest time.

He sat on the couch, listening to his parents’ laughter.

Seven
A.M.
Tuesday morning.

Dad’s house. Tree’s alarm went off.

This always caused Bradley to at least rise to be let out.

But this morning, Bradley just lay there and looked pleadingly at Tree.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

Tree jumped out of bed. “Come on, get up.”

Bradley didn’t move.

Tree tried to lift him to his feet, but Bradley fell back down.

“
Dad!
”

Tree knelt by Bradley’s side. Bradley’s head was down, his breathing forced.

“
Dad!
 . . . It’s okay, boy.” Tree tried to sound soothing, but the lump of fear in his throat was so big, he could hardly speak. Dad was in the doorway with shaving cream on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

But as soon as he said it, he knew.

Dad bent down by Bradley’s old, tired body and put his
hand over Bradley’s stomach, which was heaving hard with every breath. He did what Tree had done, tried to get the dog up.

“Aw, Bradley.” Dad wiped the shaving cream from his face onto the T-shirt he was wearing. “We’ve got to call the vet. I think he had some kind of a stroke.”

Tree couldn’t move.

“I’ll call, Tree. You stay with him.”

Tree was trying not to cry. He reached in his drawer, got out a dog treat. He stuck it under Bradley’s nose. “You want a biscuit?”

Bradley didn’t want one.

Dad was back. Hand on Tree’s shoulder. “The vet said we need to bring him in. Tree, you understand how old Bradley is.”

Tree croaked out, “
Can I call Mom?
”

“Of course.”

“Can she be there? ’Cause she loved him—”

“And he loved her.”

Tree carried Bradley to the car, wrapped in a Baltimore Orioles beach towel. Grandpa followed, moving better on his new leg. They drove to Mom’s house. She got in the backseat and started to cry.

This helped all the men to be stronger.

They rode to the vet’s with Tree saying “Good dog” and Grandpa saying “It’s going to be okay, buddy,” just like he’d said to so many buddies in the war. Dad forgot the way to the vet’s because Mom usually took Bradley, and she had to give
him directions, which seemed like old times with a sad new twist.

Dr. Billings brought them right into the examining room. Tree put Bradley gently on the table. Bradley shivered; Tree covered him with the Orioles towel, even though Bradley was more of a Red Sox fan. Dr. Billings looked in Bradley’s cloudy eyes, felt around his stomach, listened to his heart. Did what Tree and his father had tried to do, get him to stand.

“He can’t,” Tree said.

The doctor sighed. “His heart doesn’t sound too bad, but I think the rest of him just gave up. He’s old. You need to decide what you want to do. I know how hard this is.”

Mom put her hand on Bradley’s head and wept.

Tree just let loose all the sobs he’d been holding in. Grandpa bent over sadly; Dad lost it, too.

They tried to discuss what to do.

Would they stay when the doctor gave Bradley the shot?

Yes.

Did they want to bury him or have him cremated?

“It doesn’t matter,” said Dad.

“Buried,” said Mom.

Did they understand that the shot would be given and after a few minutes it would go into Bradley’s heart and cause it to stop?

Yes, they understood that.

Did they want a few minutes alone first to say good-bye?

Yes. They really did.

Tree didn’t know how to say good-bye to a dog he’d known all his life. The sadness of it just washed over him, and because he was big, he had more sadness—at least that’s how it seemed. So he stood there with Mom, Dad, and Grandpa and just patted Bradley and said he was a good dog, which is what everyone else was saying. That’s when the doctor’s cat came into the office. Bradley looked at Tree; their eyes met. And Tree knew Bradley had chased his last cat.

Not even McAllister could save him now.

The doctor came in with his needle, started filling it as the cat walked back and forth, loving the power. Tree wanted to kick the cat out. It wasn’t fair to have a cat at Bradley’s end. The vet walked over, rubbed Bradley’s neck.

Tree stamped his foot at the cat. “
Just go!
” The cat jumped out of the room. Tree looked at Bradley, half dead on the table.

He didn’t know he had this many tears inside.

“Well,” said the vet, moving closer.

Tree bent over the back half of Bradley, held him tight.

Didn’t want him to go through this alone.

“Okay now, Bradley,” said the vet. “Okay.”

Bradley opened one eye.

Gave half a bark.

Barked for real now.

Shook his head.

Stretched his front paws.

Struggled up like a great old wolf.

Faced the cat, who’d slinked back in.

Tree’s mother froze right there.

There are plenty of stories about old dogs who die in their owner’s arms, but this isn’t one of them.

“Hold on,” the vet said, shocked. “Can you put him on the floor, Tree?”

Tree cradled Bradley, lowered him gently down.

“Come on, boy,” Grandpa whispered. “Come on.”

Bradley walked shakily forward.

The cat scurried into the other room.

Bradley turned slowly, came back.

“I’ve never seen this happen,” the vet said, stunned. “It’s your decision, folks. I can’t promise how long, but I think this old dog’s got some life in him yet.”

Tree laughed from sheer relief.

“All right now!” Grandpa shouted.

Dad shook his head, amazed.

Mom couldn’t speak.

Bradley looked at Tree, who said, “You want to go home, boy?”

Bradley lay down.

“Home is this way.” Tree headed for the door. Bradley got up, walked slowly after him.

The whole town was buzzing with Bradley’s near-death experience.

“He probably saw a light going through a tunnel before he turned around,” said Mrs. Clitter, who brought over some homemade dog biscuits to celebrate.

She said she’d let McAllister slink by more often to keep Bradley on his toes.

That cat was so irritating, he could keep anything alive.

In the days following Bradley’s resurrection, the animals of the neighborhood seemed to come by more to celebrate their friend’s return. Tree made sure he always had biscuits in his pocket for any dog who wanted one.

“This is from Bradley,” he’d say.

Tree knew it wouldn’t last forever, but he decided to focus in full on whatever time was left.

The basketball season was winding down and Coach Glummer had developed irritable bowel syndrome, which seemed to reach heightened intensity whenever the Pit Bulls were losing by more than twenty points, which was close to always. They were moving down the court in a more unified manner since ballroom dancing; Tree had made some okay handoffs, but it wasn’t enough.

Coach Glummer was holding his stomach, shouting that
no one
was paying attention out there.
No one
on this team cared.

Tree stepped forward. “I don’t think that’s right, Coach. I care. I was paying attention. I know that Petey was trying, and Ryan, and all the guys.”

The Pit Bulls, emboldened by this declaration of courage, said yeah, that was right.

Coach Glummer stammered, said they could do better.

“Maybe,” said Tree. “But the Huskies were state champs three years in a row. And the last two years they beat us by much bigger point spreads.”

The Pit Bulls growled in agreement.

“And we all went to ballroom dancing like you said, and we’ve been trying to get better.”

Tree knew from his grandpa that hard things take time. He decided to not mention this.

Coach Glummer stormed off.

There are two kinds of coaches in the world—those that listen and those that don’t. Jeremy Liggins stood back as the Pit Bulls circled Tree, slapped him on the back, and told him, “Way to go, man.”

Way to go.

No team had ever told Tree that before.

Helping Grandpa take a shower wasn’t easy.

Grandpa was embarrassed he needed help getting in and out of a wet tub, but it was so easy to slip, he needed a spotter, at least for now.

Tree was standing by the tub. Grandpa sat on the plastic stool, using the shower hose to spray the soap off.