Boy's Best Friend

 

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For all the animals that have inspired us

 

—K.B. and R.S.

 

1

“Moving is fun. Change can be positive.” Lester Shoe repeated his mantra a dozen times, then a dozen more as he tried to fall asleep. A mantra was a group of syllables or words that carried power to make things turn out a certain way. It had been his mother's idea for him to try this. She chanted “Om” each morning for happiness and peace, and it seemed to work. She was always cheerful.

“Repeating a mantra quiets the mind,” Lester's mother had said. “And it provides comfort in trying times.” Then she had reached her palms skyward and bent forward into an upside-down V. Lester's mother was a yoga teacher and spent a lot of time in strange and unusual positions.

These were certainly trying times for Lester, who had moved from Denver to Cape Cod just after Easter and was going to start a new school in two days' time.

“A mantra can even unlock great virtues within,” Lester's mother had added.

Lester liked the idea that there might be great virtues lurking within him waiting to be unleashed, and he wondered what those might be.

“Like what?” he'd asked.

His mother had said, “Oh, I don't know.” But then she'd reeled off a list of attributes, some of which Lester felt he lacked. “Courage, confidence, patience, sacrifice, serenity.”

“Oh,” Lester had said, picking up a pencil and scribbling the words in his notebook, right next to a doodle of President Obama. Lester loved to doodle. In fact, doodling seemed to provide Lester with one of those virtues—serenity.

“But you need to be persistent for it to work,” his mother had added.

Persistence. That was another quality that Lester felt he could use more of.

“Moving is fun. Change can be positive,” Lester said to his dog, Bill Gates, who was curled up on the foot of Lester's new bed. “Moving is fun. Change can be positive.” Eventually Lester's eyes closed and he fell asleep.

In the morning Lester sat up and looked around. “Where am I?” he said. The periwinkle-colored walls and the sparkling white window sashes were painfully unfamiliar. Lester tossed Bill Gates an old corduroy slipper. “I was dreaming about a spaceship,” he said. “What were you dreaming? Do dogs even dream?”

Bill Gates bent his head to one side and looked at Lester in earnest. Lester imagined him saying, “Well, sure we do.”

Lester petted Bill Gates on the crown of his head. “Of course you do,” he said. “I mean, why wouldn't you?”

Bill Gates was a big dog—part mongrel, part golden retriever. Lester was four years old when he'd gotten him, and he was like a sibling, of which Lester had none.

Lester leaned over and nuzzled the dog's neck. “You're better than a brother or sister,” he said. “Brothers and sisters fight. We never fight.” Then he rolled off the bed and went to his desk. Lester glanced at the list of virtues in his notebook, then took the fat dictionary from his bookshelf. He turned to the word “virtue” and scanned the qualities in the definition. There were lots of them. Lester chose those that he felt were most important and added them to his list. Lester liked making lists. They made him feel organized and orderly—two other virtues. He had a list of his favorite movies, favorite songs, favorite places.

“Acceptance, Cleanliness, Honor, Joyfulness, Reliability, and Loyalty,” Lester said aloud. Then he checked off the last one. “I might not be confident or patient,” he said to Bill Gates. “But I think I'm pretty loyal, don't you?”

Lester closed his notebook and sketched a portrait of himself on the cover—a thin figure flanked by a large dog. Lester was hardly thin. In fact, he was slightly overweight.

“Plump,” he called himself. “But I'm sure I'll grow out of it,” he continued to tell his mother.

Lester walked across the hall to the bathroom. He stood before the toilet and took aim. Back in Denver he could stand gazing out the window at the giant oak in the front yard and pee without looking. This toilet was a different shape and he had to pay attention lest he miss the mark. The window was in back of him so he stood facing a tile wall speckled with octopuses and starfish, which seemed to be staring at him.

Lester washed his hands and leaned over the faucet for a drink. He sloshed the water around in his mouth. “Even the water here tastes different from the water in Denver,” he said, sighing.

Lester nudged Bill Gates down the stairs. Bill Gates had been lethargic of late and Lester had attributed it to the move.

“I know it's hard at the beginning,” said Lester, repeating what his parents had told him. “You don't know other dogs. Everything is new and feels weird and different. But don't worry. You'll make new friends and you'll end up loving it here just as much as you love Denver.” Lester paused. His mother was calling him.

“Lester, you forgot to take out the garbage last night. Would you please do it now?”

“Sure,” said Lester. He went to the kitchen and stopped to pet the parrot housed in a cage next to the refrigerator.

“What's up, Carlos?” said Lester.

“What's up?” echoed Carlos. Lester guessed that was his mantra. Carlos knew at least fifty words, but those were his favorites.

Lester opened the refrigerator, took out a round of cheese, and popped it into his mouth.

“What's up?” chirped Carlos a second time.

“Why do I have to take out the garbage?” asked Lester.

“Because you don't have any brothers or sisters,” said his mother, who was unloading the dishwasher.

“That's not my fault,” murmured Lester, lifting the garbage bag and heading out the door followed by Bill Gates. Something about dropping the bag into the garbage can left him with an inexplicable feeling of emptiness.

Lester returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. “I feel like I left something behind in Denver,” he said.

“Like what?” asked his mother, smiling.

“Like part of me,” said Lester. “The stuffing or something.”

Lester's mother's smile rippled into a look of puzzlement. “How's that?” she asked.

Lester shrugged. “I just feel kind of empty.”

Lester's mother's smile returned to normal. She seemed happy about his emptiness. “Well, I'm sure you'll find plenty here to fill up those spaces,” she said. “And you can start with this,” she added, setting an omelet and two slices of buttered toast in front of him.

“I guess,” said Lester, but he wasn't convinced. “Moving is fun. Change can be positive.” He took a bite of the omelet, then looked at his mother. “Are you sure this mantra stuff works?” he asked.

Lester's mother nodded her head knowingly. “Yes,” she said with confidence. That was one of her virtues.

Lester nodded back. Then the front door flew open and in came Lester's dad, back from an early morning jog. He was a sports journalist and he was the reason for the move. He'd gotten a new job.

“What a place for running,” he said. “Boy does that feel great.” Then he turned to Lester and gave him a high five. “What's new, big guy?” he asked.

What isn't new? thought Lester.

“Everything,” he said. Then he started up the stairs chanting his mantra. “Moving is fun. Change can be positive.” He looked back at his father, who was stretching, folding his calf to his buttock.

When he got to his room, Lester reached down and tried to touch his toes. He did twenty jumping jacks, then pushed the bed away from the wall and jogged five laps around it. But he didn't feel any better.

 

2

Later that same day, George Masson stood in line at the grocery store waiting to pay for a pack of atomic bubble gum, an amazing invention—at least George thought so—that fizzled in your mouth when you bit into it. The line was long. George was bored, so he began to stare at the back of the head of the man in front of him. He waited for the guy to turn around. After several seconds the man looked at George and George turned away.

When it was his turn to pay, George put the money on the conveyer belt and popped a piece of gum into his mouth, slipping the box into a pocket. Then he hopped on his bike and headed home. He stopped at a traffic light and stared at the back of a pedestrian's head. The pedestrian turned and looked at George strangely.

“Hi,” said George.

“Hi,” said the pedestrian.

George took a left onto Acorn Street and swerved into his driveway. His older brother, Zac, was patching a tire on his bike. George stopped short and began staring at the back of his head.

Zac turned around. “What are you staring at, man?” he said.

“How'd you know I was staring?” asked George.

“Don't know,” said Zac, going back to what he was doing. “I just did, and it's annoying.” Then he added, “If you want to stare at someone, you can stare at Bart.”

George turned to Bart, who sat at the top of the driveway wagging his tail. He was the family dog, part border collie, part mongrel.

“Hey, big guy,” George said, leaning down and scratching Bart under the chin.

“You shouldn't go around staring like that,” said Zac. “It's rude. Besides people will think you're a weirdo.”

“Rupert Sheldrake does it,” said George. “He even does experiments about it.”

“Who's Rupert Sheldrake?” asked Zac.

“He's my mentor,” said George.

“You don't even know what a mentor is,” said Zac.

“Yes I do,” said George. “It's someone you want to be like.”

George had heard about Rupert Sheldrake from Kyra, his best friend, who had moved after Christmas more than seven hundred miles away to North Carolina. George's attention was drawn to the green ribbon around his wrist that Kyra had given him before she left. She had one too, and they'd promised to never take them off, but to wait until they just wore away. George fingered the edge of the ribbon, hoping that little by little, as the fabric wore away, so would the feelings of sadness he felt at Kyra's leaving.