The wonder of lost cause.., p.1
The Wonder of Lost Causes, page 1
Dedication
For Kathy, and inspirational, selfless, and brave CF mamas everywhere
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part I
1. Jasper
2. Kate
3. Jasper
4. Kate
5. Jasper
6. Kate
7. Jasper
8. Kate
9. Jasper
10. Kate
11. Jasper
12. Kate
13. Jasper
14. Kate
15. Jasper
16. Kate
17. Jasper
18. Kate
19. Jasper
20. Kate
21. Jasper
22. Kate
23. Jasper
24. Kate
25. Jasper
26. Kate
27. Jasper
28. Kate
29. Jasper
30. Kate
31. Jasper
32. Kate
33. Jasper
34. Kate
35. Jasper
36. Kate
37. Jasper
38. Kate
39. Jasper
40. Kate
41. Jasper
Part II
42. Jasper
43. Kate
44. Jasper
45. Kate
46. Jasper
47. Kate
48. Jasper
49. Kate
50. Jasper
51. Kate
52. Jasper
53. Kate
54. Jasper
55. Kate
56. Jasper
57. Kate
58. Jasper
59. Kate
60. Jasper
61. Kate
62. Jasper
63. Kate
64. Jasper
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Author
About the Book
Also by Nick Trout
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part I
Never be ashamed of a scar. It simply means you were stronger than whatever tried to hurt you.
—Unknown
1
Jasper
MY NAME IS Jasper Blunt, and I’m always hungry. Not for food. I’m always hungry for air, as in breathing, as in the stuff your lungs are supposed to process without having to think. Only sometimes, like right now, it feels as though I’m about to starve.
Last time I was in the hospital, like three months back, Mom bought me the Guinness World Records book from the gift shop in the lobby. Did you know the record for most people jammed inside a MINI Cooper is twenty-eight? Imagine you’re squished in the back seat when the last person climbs in. That’s the kind of tightness that can take over my chest.
This time is nowhere near that bad, but something’s definitely wrong. My heart has shifted to a place between my ears, there’s a boa constrictor where my stomach used to be, and the double hit on my puffer did absolutely nothing. I close my eyelids, pretend to be calm, focus on slow deep breaths, and hope I’m not dying.
Normally Mrs. Katz, the school bus driver, would ask me how I’m doing. But yesterday, when I spotted her new ID badge clipped beside her seat, I made the mistake of telling her I liked it.
“Thanks,” she had said, surprised but pleased, showing me her best gray-toothed smile. “Hated the old one. But why is it photos always make you look fat?”
I thought about this and replied, “Fat makes you look fat, Mrs. Katz.”
Now she acts like she hates me, even though I’m the only kid who ever sits up front. It’s October and it’s still hot, like someone forgot about fall and won’t let summer end. Fortunately, the windows are open and if I angle my head just right, my lungs can grab some of the salty air coming off the ocean. Eyes scrunched shut, with only five more minutes to go, I pretend I’m a free diver preparing to go deep, ignoring the scary belly knot twisting tighter and tighter the closer I get to my stop.
2
Kate
“I GOT HIM, Dr. Blunt,” says Martha. She’s holding tight to the handle of a steel rabies pole.
Martha is my most experienced technician, überpierced and, for this week only, sporting Slurpee-blue hair gelled into stiff peaks. The wings of the bald eagle tattooed across her inner bicep flutter as proof of her muscular restraint.
We’re standing on the loading dock around the back of the shelter. The creature on the wrong end of the pole braces himself against the braided steel noose cinched around his neck. He appears riveted to the concrete, head down, chin in chest, refusing to make eye contact.
In my particular version of canine matchmaking—a significant part of my job—first impressions are everything, but this dog makes you stare for all the wrong reasons. By any definition he is an immeasurable mutt, a Heinz 57 with so many varieties in the mix it is impossible to pick out all the ingredients. Loose mastiff jowls; oversized silly shepherd ears; outstretched Doberman neck; legs of a Dane; and the broad, beaver tail of an English Labrador. I could probably start over and find a dozen new breeds the second time around. The best I can do is to label him as a predominantly black, neutered male; and big, somewhere in the order of one hundred pounds.
Yet the dog’s grab bag of breeds is nothing compared to the scars, a history of previous troubled lives written in permanent aberrations on his poor body. Impossible to ignore, they hold you up, make you stumble, force you to wonder what happened, and why, and—sadly—for how long.
Beside the huge Antarctica-shaped scar on his flank, the other skin lesions may seem minor, but the dog’s entire body is peppered with sizable nicks and dings, a used car with way too many miles on the clock to merit a makeover. He’s missing two toes from his left back paw, the amputation crude, more butchery than surgery, leaving the remaining nubs gnarled and unsightly. And then there’s the trauma to his head. The dog’s upper and lower incisor teeth are gone, causing the tip of his tongue to protrude beyond his lips when he isn’t panting. His right ear looks as if it was nibbled by a shark and his right upper eyelid droops, making his blink on that side languid and teary.
But my biggest concern lies with the hairless zebra stripes of scar tissue across the bridge of his nose—irregular, thick, almost rubbery. I’ve seen them before, just once, in a photograph from a scientific journal, an image I’d hoped to forget. In the version I recall, damage was caused by layer upon layer of duct tape wrapped jaw-clenchingly tight around a dog’s muzzle. The intent was not to maim or brand. The intent was to silence—a cheap, crude, heartless binding meant to quiet any dog that barked too much, especially a dog that might give anything to be somewhere else.
I inch into a potential strike zone, my “magic wand” microchip scanner in hand. “Good boy,” I say. The dog’s posture is confusing. He’s guarded and suspicious, yet not overtly aggressive, afraid, or submissive.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was on the verge of giving up, resigned to his fate.
“That’s a good boy.”
I stretch forward, waving the scanner back and forth across his hunched shoulder blades. Jackpot—the digital screen lights up and there’s an audible ping.
“We have a winner,” says Martha, maintaining her solid grip on the rabies pole.
A serial number stretches across the display. This is the best possible outcome—a dog too flawed, too peculiar to be adopted, already has a home.
“You okay while I find out who he belongs to?”
I’m gone before Martha can reply, heading up front to call the tracking company. I’m almost too distracted to catch the sound of the throaty diesel engine, the distinctive crunch of a school bus gearbox slowing for a stop.
3
Jasper
ONE TIME A doctor suggested I learn how to meditate, saying it would help me breathe in stressful situations. What a plonker. You try to relax and “open your mind” when it feels like you ran a hundred-meter sprint with your nose pinched shut and a plastic straw duct-taped to your lips.
“Hey.”
I look up to find Mrs. Katz towering over me.
“It’s your stop.”
I check out the window (in case she’s lying), mumble sorry, grab my backpack, and scramble off the bus. I try to run, but it makes the nervous tightness in my chest worse. Even at a slog—a slow jog—my backpack feels like it’s full of rocks, making me sloth down the white shell driveway to the shelter.
The closer I get to the main building, the more anxious I get. And it’s not my usual, “Mom, I think we need to go to the ER.” It’s different. More like I’m totally stressed out, and for no good reason. I crash through the front doors, into the empty lobby.
Mom’s behind the reception desk, staring at a computer screen, reaching for a phone. She looks up as I come in.
“I feel funny,” I say, ditching the pack and shuffling toward her.
Before my stack of textbooks and tracker files can even hit the floor, she’s on me.
“You tight? Coughing? Chest hurt?”
If Mom wanted to play poker, she’d have to do it online. She gets this twitchy flicker around her left eye and I know she doesn’t want me to notice and I don’t want to make her feel bad, but it happens every time she starts to panic.
I fake a smile. “I’m okay. It’s just . . . it’s like I’ve done something wrong. Inside. That’s what it feels like. Like I’m in trouble. But I haven’t, I promise.”
Mom crouches down so our eyes are level. Slowly, the twitch fizzles out. “Bad report card coming my way?”
I shake my head.
“But you’re afraid of something?”
Under other circumstances, this might be a good time to mention how I bought something I shouldn’t on Amazon, but I murmur, “I guess.”
The weird feeling scrunches up inside my belly again, and my answer has made her twitch spark back to life, so I reach out and put my fingers on it. I smooth the soft skin, making it disappear, whispering, “It’s okay, Mom,” quiet enough so that no one else can hear.
4
Kate
HIS LIPS ARE their usual pale lavender—only so much oxygen can permeate his bloodstream—but, paradoxically, the way he speaks settles my nerves. Jasper’s voice always has a subtle, smoky timbre, thanks to years of caustic inhaled medications abrading his tiny vocal cords. It’s not the sound that matters, nor the pitch. It’s the rhythm. How his sentences fit between his breaths. When Jasper isn’t being forced to rush, to squeeze words or split syllables around inhalations, that’s always a good sign.
I make a joke about a report card but he doesn’t laugh. He’s either worried or scared, I can’t tell. Eleven-year-old boys shouldn’t have to worry about anything, least of all about staying alive.
His worry makes me worry. And that’s when he gets to me—this sick little boy brushing away my concern. The sincerity written in those eyes fells me, my little boy trying to appear carefree, intent on offering me comfort and reassurance.
At work I try to be Dr. Blunt, not Mom, but I bend forward and plant a quick dry kiss on his forehead.
“Drop your stuff in my office and change. We’re on the loading dock.”
Jasper nods and shuffles down the corridor. He’s wearing his favorite “7 Beckham” England soccer shirt for the second day in a row. I stifle a smile. For a split second I almost sweated the small stuff of a normal parent.
Out back, the standoff between Martha and my defiant canine remains unchanged.
“He’s another Lucky,” I say as I walk through the door.
“How original,” says Martha, sounding bored, adjusting her grip on the pole.
“The microchip guy says he’ll call me back as soon as he’s reached the owner. Meantime, let’s try to get our friend into isolation. Lucky, you ready to behave?”
“Lucky,” says Martha, with renewed determination, “come on, Lucky. Let’s go.”
As Martha tugs on the pole, the dog jerks forward, nails scraping across the concrete; but with his front and back legs extended and locked underneath him, Lucky barely budges.
“Lucky,” I snap. Lucky doesn’t even blink.
“Maybe he’s deaf,” says Martha.
Or stubborn, I think to myself.
I slink closer, chanting “Lucky” to an animal that looks as though he wants to fold into himself, over and over, until he’s so small he disappears. I stretch out my hand and it floats toward the most prominent scar, as if drawn to it. Head bowed, the dog cannot possibly see the gesture, yet he shimmies sideways, twisting out of range.
“No, Lucky,” barks Martha, yanking on the noose, making the dog flinch. She meets my glare of disapproval with her own huffy grimace of defiance. I’m certain biting is the last thing on his mind. “You want to grab a sedative or shall I?”
To be fair, she’s got a point. We’re getting nowhere. But do I want an owner collecting a dog that looks as though he’s been binge drinking at a frat party?
“Just hang on.” I take the pole from Martha, opting for one more attempt at total dominance, booming out a masterful “Lucky, come,” trying to muscle this dogged dog toward the open door.
Nothing. Just dead weight.
Then, without warning, the tension in the rabies pole vanishes, the dog’s head rises with regal deliberation, muscles relax, loosen up, and finally, after all our previous efforts, the animal makes his first genuine eye contact.
But not with me.
I follow Lucky’s line of sight and there, mesmerized and frozen in the doorway, stands my son.
Seconds crawl by and nobody moves. I’m holding my breath. Immediately, it’s clear that this is more than just a boy and a dog sizing each other up, more than simple curiosity or mutual appraisal. The two appear equally starstruck. An odd connectivity burns in their eyes—they’re not just looking at each other, they’re looking inside each other. If I had to nail down Jasper’s expression, I’d go with a flash of confusion, quickly overwhelmed by something approaching—and I know it makes absolutely no sense—the pleasure of recognition.
“Lucky, come,” I repeat, trying to take advantage of the dog’s dropped guard. The animal stumbles a few steps forward until the trance fractures and once more, the joints of this tin dog rust up solid.
“I’m getting the drugs,” says Martha, heading for the pharmacy.
I let up on the pole as a small hand tugs on my sleeve.
“Mom, his name’s not Lucky.”
“Not now, Jasper.”
“But Dr. Blunt,” insists my son, “it’s not.”
“Jasper, the dog is microchipped. Don’t ask me how but he’s twenty miles from his home in Wellfleet, and, according to the tracking data, his name is Lucky.”
Jasper shakes his head. More than adamant, he’s deadly serious. “His name’s Whistler.”
And just like flipping a switch, I divine a sea change through the pole, the dog transformed by the sound of two new syllables, as if instantly suffused with relief. His tail toggles in a slow, appreciative wag.
“Whistler,” I repeat, and saying the name again only fires up his wag, windshield wiper set to high, making it easy to guide a different, entirely malleable dog through an open door and directly into the isolation ward, with its harsh austerity, fresh antiseptic smell, and ominous echo of distant barking. Straight into a run, I slip off the redundant noose of the rabies pole, lock the metal gate, and turn to my son.
“Tell me the truth,” I say. “Have you seen this dog before?”
Jasper shakes his head, but the way he bites down on his lower lip makes him appear either ashamed or afraid.
“Then how did you know his name?”
My only child studies the floor, winces through painful deliberation, takes the deepest breath his diseased little lungs can muster, and says:
“Because he told me.”
5
Jasper
I KNOW THIS is going to make me sound a little creepy or screwy or wacked, but for a while I’ve been getting these . . . weird feelings, around certain dogs. Like a few days ago during visiting hours when I was standing outside Mr. Tibbles’s cage—he’s this snippy three-legged Pomeranian that seems to like me even if Martha has him marked down as “absolutely no kids, period.” This family walked past and, don’t ask me how, but the dog might as well have screamed in my ear that he was fine with boys, just not girls, especially girls with pigtails like the one holding on to her mom and dad. And I remember that I suddenly got this pain in my arm, brief but shooting, and at precisely the same time my stomach lurched like on a roller coaster (I’m guessing because I’ve never been allowed on one). It only lasted seconds, but later Martha told me the Pomeranian lost its leg after it was broken and the original owners couldn’t afford to fix it. She thought it probably involved falling from high up. I kept my mouth shut—usually best around Martha—but after my experience today, I would bet money, if I had any, that Mr. Tibbles broke his leg by being accidentally dropped from a height by a little girl with pigtails.
Okay, maybe not a great example, but I swear the moment I set eyes on this dog called Whistler, it was as if this weirdness might actually make some sense. What if I wasn’t tuning into my nervousness on the school bus, but the dog’s? And maybe it’s more than just realizing something in my head. What if I can actually feel the changes inside of a dog myself? What if the boa constrictor swallowing my stomach was caused by a scared dog in a scary place, trapped on the wrong end of a scary rabies pole?
I never meant to freak Mom out with the name Whistler. It just kind of popped into my brain. The dog didn’t actually speak like in some dumb Dr. Dolittle movie. It was more like the name was already there, hiding, but wanting to be found. I knew the name Whistler was right, even if the only voice I heard was mine.
