Kizzy Ann Stamps (7 page)

I appreciate your kind words telling me not to take things personal. But it
is
personal. When people talk together, it has to be personal, doesn’t it?

“Your dog’s not real.” That’s what that stupid Laura told me when I got to school today.

“She looks real to me,” I said, reaching down to pass a cupped hand over Shag’s well-shaped head. “Feels real, too.”

Then she called me stupid and told me her father said a border collie was a no-account dog, not even registered with the AKC.

“I know that,” I told her. “I know about the American Kennel Club. And I know that Shag could win any old dog show that lets border collies in.”

“Not while she’s with you, Kizzy Ann.”

“You think I don’t know about dog shows? For example, I happen to know that Shag is a natural at stacking.”

Now, of course, you realize, Miss Anderson, that I hadn’t known this for all that long, nor was I really sure that the stacking Shag did was actually correct, but sometimes the spit and vinegar just gets in me.

Granny Bits says my spit and vinegar is my curse, and she would say that what Laura told me next was my payback.

Because Laura knew what I didn’t. She knew that black folks aren’t allowed to participate in dog shows. That book in the library didn’t say one thing about it. But Laura knew. Here’s how she said it: “Read between the lines, dummy.” She knew that the biggest strike against Shag isn’t the fact that border collies aren’t recognized by the AKC. The rule book might not say anything spelled out clear like the snippy muzzle or being registered in the United States as a breed. But it’s a rule just the same, she said.

Laura Westover knew Shag’s biggest problem is that she belongs to me.

I know you could tell something was wrong. And I’m sorry you were so bold as to touch my forehead to see if I was feeling poorly. I don’t think you’ll hear kindly about that from parents, seeing as how everybody gasped when your palm grazed my skin. I didn’t mean to be pouting or anything. I just couldn’t believe that my color would block my dog from opportunities. Sure, I can’t go to the movies in the front door, and I can’t order in a white restaurant, and I can’t sit on the same school bus seat as the white kids. But I never thought my dog would be affected just because of me.

I went home and tied a bow in Shag’s fur, right behind her right ear, all perky looking. I thought it would make me feel better. Shag didn’t growl or show her teeth, but she let me know she didn’t like it. Just like when she lets Mama bathe her in sweet-smelling shampoo sometimes, but she stands there with that hard look on her face. She lets Daddy trim her fur with shears, and she stands perfectly still, even when he doesn’t do it very well. She knows, better than any of us, I guess, that she is just a farm dog. Shag doesn’t care about fancy.

I slid the bow out and threw it away. Shag snugged her head under my hand, and we sat for a pretty long while. It’s like she was telling me that she didn’t mind about the dog show. She didn’t want to stack or pose or let some judge run his hands over her fur to feel for her bones in the right places. She’s a working dog who follows work commands. She’s a no-bow dog. And it doesn’t matter to her.

I just wish it didn’t matter to me.

I don’t think I’m writing in this journal anymore, Miss Anderson. No offense to you or anything. I can sit in your room, I can get to see new encyclopedias, and I can wear Laura Westover’s frilly leftover dresses. But I am never going to be really equal. Not really.

Thank you, Miss Anderson, for sending my work home with David Warren, and for not saying “I told you so” about not writing in the journal anymore. Shag getting hurt just stopped everything for a while — I didn’t even do my chores. (Can you believe James did them for me without a complaint? That’s how serious things were.) It’s been so many weeks since I could do anything but take care of her since the accident, but she is better now, and I just have to write to tell you all about it. Part of it is to get it off of my chest. Part of it is to thank you for your kindnesses. I have never asked you if you love dogs (I know you didn’t have a dog, with your daddy’s allergies, and your turtle, Mr. Boxster, and all, but you still could be a lover of dogs), but now I’m thinking you
must
, to understand how I could not come to school. And how I would not be able to stay away from my writing, especially after a time like I had.

It was all pretty amazing when I stop to think about it. And I’ll admit to you that I was mighty scared — you see why I didn’t trust myself to write until now. I sure didn’t want to put my fear on the page — I thought writing it might make it more real, more likely to happen. And I could not go on without my Shag.

It was just a regular Saturday. I’d done my chores and taken Shag for a dip in the pond (I love to watch her herd those stupid geese all around the place). I was just getting started shucking corn for supper. Shag wasn’t looking for trouble. She wasn’t looking at all. Her eyes were closed, and tiny snores escaped her with every breath.

That ridiculous Frank Charles Feagans was waiting for Granny Bits to give him change. He comes over right often in late summer to get corn, tomatoes, and string beans. His mama just plain has a black thumb — she can’t get weeds to grow, and come September, all those Feaganses are practically drooling for good vegetables. (That’s what Granny Bits says. I do like fresh limas, but I pretty much only drool over fresh-churned ice cream.) Anyway, Mrs. Feagans buys from us. And even though I don’t think Mr. Feagans ever asks where the vegetables come from, Frank Charles’s mama sends him over to collect the vegetables only when Mr. F. is busy, just in case.

Frank Charles comes slinking across the fields. He never climbs over a fence but slides quiet like between the rails, like a sneak thief. I’d tell him no myself — I’d refuse Feagans’s money — but Granny Bits says pride never put meat on the table, that money is money, and besides, none of God’s children should go hungry for the harvest of the Lord.

He was inching closer to me and the pile of corn. “That dog of yours sleeps heavy,” he said, pointing his head to Shag.

“She worked hard all day,” I said. I was going to tell him about those geese, but I didn’t get any further because as I leaned forward to pluck an ear from the pile, Shag jumped up. Mama says it was a sixth sense, but I don’t know about that. All I do know is that as my hand reached into the pile of Silver Queen, Shag darted in quicker, passing my hand in a flash. I jerked back like I was on fire and screamed, “Snake!”

“Lord,” Frank Charles said, backing up and stumbling. Daddy rushed from the barn, Mama from the kitchen, but they could only watch, like I did. The copperhead, its tan markings blending with the silk tassels of the corn ears, had been ready to strike. Shag took that strike for me across her right front paw. One yelp, and then she caught the snake behind its head and snapped firmly.

Shag dropped the lifeless snake, took two steps, and then dropped herself. Frank Charles amazed me. His voice didn’t shake at all when he said, “Snakebite. Vet’s at my farm.” He ran faster than I’ve ever seen him move, and as I knelt beside my Shag, I saw him all but hurdle that first fence. Mama wrapped her dish towel tight around the still paw, where two sharp pricks bled brightly above Shag’s nails.

Daddy pushed into the kitchen and came back with a kitchen knife. I knew he meant to use it to cut her, to let the poison drain out. I could hardly swallow around the lump in my throat.

“Hold her,” he said to me, and I have never felt so strong, although Shag did not move once. Her eyes held mine, and, I guess because of her chocolate eyes, I thought of Hershey’s kisses. Shag didn’t allow one tear to fall, but an ocean rushed down
my
cheeks.

It seemed like just a minute and then Frank Charles was back, with Doc Fleck beside him. The old vet was huffing and puffing so hard I was afraid he’d pass out.

Shag hasn’t had good experiences with white people since I’ve had her — she doesn’t ever forget a kick — but the doctor put his hand out first and let her sniff it. I reckon she could smell all the animals he’s looked after. I don’t think trust has a color, but it sure
must
have a smell.

Doc Fleck looked at Daddy, still clutching the bloody knife, where he’d cut an
X
across those two sharp pricks. Without a pause, the doctor knelt over Shag and sucked at the poison. Then he spit and sucked again. Slowly, he eased the tourniquet towel away and massaged her, which eased the flow of blood back into her paw. Shag put her eyes on mine again, and I didn’t look back at the vet to see what he was doing. Shag shuddered only once.

Mr. Feagans had come up, unnoticed until he spoke. His hands were on his hips. “I ain’t paying you to tend to a darky’s dog.”

Silence followed his words, but I was sure I heard the cracking of eggshells.

The old white vet said nothing, just kept working on Shag. Her breathing was fast and shallow, and he slid his hands over her body. He held her as her lungs gasped air in and out, and he checked his pocket watch in time with the gasps.

“Right big copperhead,” he said, looking up at Mama and me for the first time. “Good thing we’re acting fast.”

“Will she be all right?” I asked. And I’ll tell you, Miss Anderson, my breath was coming as fast and shallow as Shag’s.

He pulled a bottle of medicine out of his bag and shoved it at me. “Every day, like it says.” He got to his feet and started to make his way, much more slowly, back across our land. He didn’t look at Mr. Feagans, and he didn’t look at Frank Charles. He only looked back at Shag, who raised her chocolate eyes to him.

“Pray,” he said. “Don’t forget to pray.”

When I demanded she be carried to the hook rug in my room, right beside my bed, no one protested, not even Shag. She lay very still, and I stayed awake all night and listened for the little snores that proved she was still breathing.

I have given her the antivenom medicine every day. She’s been very sick, I know, because she has stayed on my rug most of every day and not once has she worked the cattle.

Mrs. Warren’s oldest son, Wilson, is studying to be a vet. He said lancing wasn’t a good thing to do — that can lead to infection — and that, frankly, he wouldn’t have wasted medicine on “such a puny dog.” I figure that shows how he doesn’t know beans from apple butter. My daddy says that Wilson Warren is smart and learning new things is important, so maybe lancing isn’t good anymore, but Daddy will never take any of our animals to Wilson Warren no matter if he is the only vet left in Bedford County.

Doc Fleck showed up at our house three days after he saved Shag’s life. It was the only time a white man has been in my house. Daddy carried Shag down to the kitchen for the vet to examine her. Doc Fleck nodded as he felt her head and ears. He looked me up and down while he felt her stomach and listened to her heart, and then he closed his eyes. “I like a dog to have a child to love ’em and grow with. Gives ’em a job to do.” He nodded at me. “Keep her busy.”

He rubbed Shag’s ears. She sniffed his hands and slowly, slowly licked him.

Daddy said, “We’re obliged to you, Doc. Long way for the vet in Bedford.”

“She wouldn’t have made it,” the old white man said. “Can’t have a dog like this go down, not after something like what she did. Just can’t have it.”

My daddy swallowed. “We’re obliged. Need to pay your fee.”

Doc Fleck looked in my pup’s eyes. “I’d not say no to a mess of that Silver Queen the girl was working on, if you’ve still got some that’s good. The wife and I do love corn.”

My father pulled his shoulders high. “I can pay money, sir.”

Doc Fleck patted Shag and put his hand out to my father to shake. “Sure you can. I got money for my time out here that day, though. Don’t need that right now. Could use the corn. You got some?”

The corn changed hands, and my dog and I went back upstairs.

You know, Granny Bits says that everything happens for a reason, and I guess that’s so.

Anyway, I care a lot less about dog shows and Laura Westover now.

I will never shuck corn again.

I am even more confused about white people than I was before. Laura and the girls at school are mean. The vet and you are nice. Mr. Feagans is mean. Frank Charles’s fast action probably saved Shag, so I guess I’d put him in the nice category even though he is annoying as all get-out. . . .

But there is one other thing I know in the category of happening for a reason for
sure.

Shag will not sleep in the barn anymore.

Now Shag sleeps with me.