Zeus, Dog of Chaos Read online

  Dedication

  For the hikers: Alisha, Carla, Courtney, Erica, MK, Lauren & Sarah

  And for the young readers and their families who manage diabetes daily

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. The Most Dangerous Assignment of Them All

  2. The Boy Who Captures Stars

  3. Welcome to Band

  4. Music Must Be Destroyed

  5. Eat the Birds

  6. Anger Smells Like Buffalo Chicken Wings

  7. Joy through Nostril Explosions

  8. I Broke the Hikers

  9. Operation Destroy Music Is a Success

  10. Take That, Tuba

  11. Not Plastic

  12. I Rule at Stick!

  13. The Dingy Raft

  14. Chaos Theory

  15. Guiltier Than an Indoor Pile of . . .

  16. Garbage Party!

  17. Come Say That to My Bill

  18. The Valedictorian (Again)

  19. A Mascot!

  20. The Three of Us Win State

  21. Murderous Pigs

  22. This Won’t Do at All

  23. Don’t B-Flat

  24. The Expectation of Pop!

  25. Leaves or Stars?

  26. The Same

  27. Grooming Habits

  28. Chasing My Tail

  29. Maximum Splashage

  30. The Ultimate Bad Dog

  31. Pity Smells Like a Fart

  32. Sit Outside the Music

  33. Comfort Is a Warm, Cozy Dog Bed

  34. Staccato (It’s a Label I Learned in Band)

  35. I’m With the Band

  36. I Smell Tuba

  37. Wide Life

  38. The Duet Becomes a Trio

  39. Not Just Another Pretty Face

  40. Superstar!

  41. Bring It, Dog

  42. I Know My Next Mission

  The Epilog Dog

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ★ 1 ★

  The Most Dangerous Assignment of Them All

  Valedictorian. That’s a human word. It sounds important, far more important than the small human words that make it up:

  Valid. Accurate or authentic.

  Dick. Short for detective, a bloodhound. Like Sherlock Holmes.

  Tory. Cautious, prefers the status quo.

  An. Single. One.

  So I figure a valedictorian is a single, accurate bloodhound who prefers the status quo, for things to stay exactly the way they are. That seems like a very specific label for these humans to give me, but they’ve given it to me nonetheless, so I’ll try my hardest to live up to it.

  Valedictorian. It’s the most important word in the class. The word is so valuable, it makes my pointy ears pointier, my lush whiskers twitchier, my waggy tail waggier. I sit up even more straight, if that’s possible. The silly hat the humans have balanced between my ears slides around on my head. It’s flat and has a tassel hanging off one side. I have to tilt my head to keep it from falling off.

  It must make me look bewildered, because Beef laughs at me. Let me know if you’re confused, Zeus, he mutters from the corner of his big drooly mouth. I’d be happy to explain it to our “valedictorian.”

  I scowl. Beef knows we’re not supposed to talk right now. Hooligan.

  Beef is a Great Dane, and he takes that label great seriously. He towers over the rest of us at four feet tall, and he is a knot of muscle. You know the type: this fella’s had a face full of whiskers since he was eleven months old. His bark is deep and sure. His collar is like a yoke, his neck is so thick. And his breath? Whew. Beef puts the noxious in obnoxious.

  Dave McGruff, the head trainer, walks to the front of the room. I love Dave. So much so that my heart gets the best of my mouth and I shout out, I love you, Dave!

  Beef and the other dogs laugh. Teacher’s pet, they say.

  I know that teacher’s pet is a fancy human phrase that means favorite, but I can’t stand being called a pet. That isn’t the role of a service dog. I’m not a pet, I’m a tool, I say.

  Vader, on the opposite side of Beef, snorts a laugh through his smooshed Boxer nose. He manages to make it sound like a sneeze, though. A tool! he whines.

  That you are, Zeus, Beef says with a nod. That you are.

  Dave clears his throat into a microphone. Everyone quiets, because Dave is the alpha dog around here at Canine College. Dave has spiffied up his jumpsuit by adding a bow tie, and when I look closer, I see it’s left over from the bow ties and bows they’ve put on us dogs today. I’m surprised the prison guards have let him do this, but then again, it is an important day.

  “‘The strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.’ Rudyard Kipling said that. I think it’s the perfect description of our outstanding class of dogs here.” Dave sweeps his hand in our direction. “Dogs not only make the world a better place, they make the world a safer place. They guard us. They protect us. They do whatever they can for their pack.” Dave smiles, the human version of wagging. I want to wag back, but I’m in sit. And Dave knows that I love him, right? I get a little panicky, because what if he doesn’t know? I haven’t told him so since just a minute ago. But I do. I love Dave. I tell him as loudly as I can with my eyes: I love you, Dave!

  “And dogs, see, they don’t do all their hard work for glory, or for fame, or for a reward of any kind,” Dave continues.

  Not me, Beef mutters. I’m definitely in it for the bacon treats.

  Vader snuffles a laugh.

  “No reward,” Dave continues, almost as if he heard our chatter. “No, dogs help us because of their perfect love. They are nothing but walking hearts, pure souls on four legs, these brave dogs before us today.” Dave removes his glasses. I like it when humans remove their glasses. It makes it easier for me to label them with a word. Dave’s word is authentic. Always has been.

  “These dogs have all passed the Canine Good Citizen test and at least one other trial, usually a scent test, that determines their placement. They are all good dogs.”

  Good dog. That’s the second-best label you can get. I can’t help it: I wag.

  Dave replaces his glasses, and his face tilts into a smile. “If you ask me, angels probably don’t have wings. They have paws.”

  The humans have gathered in this room: the big, smelly cafeteria inside this big cage, a kennel that humans call a prison. This is where we’ve done most of our training since we were pups. Volunteers and the people who live inside this prison run Canine College. These humans are all here today, and they pound the palms of their hands together, which is called applause and as best as I can tell is like barking.

  I have an itch under my vest, twitching my skin. But I can’t scratch it. I’m in the vest, after all. That would be a violation. Violation is a fancy human word for no.

  Dave looks down at the marks he’s made on paper. “We work hard to place each dog in an assignment where we feel their gifts are best utilized. We take these assignments seriously, and we put hours of thought into each pairing. The last thing we want is for a human and his dog to be a mismatch. We strive for zero re-assignments.”

  At that word, every dog in the class stiffens. Our jaws collectively tighten. Reassignment. It’s another fancy human word, one that is like wearing a forever Cone of Shame.

  Reassignment definitely equals failure. And I can’t fail. No one in my family has ever been reassigned, and I won’t be the first.

  Pssst. That’ll be you, pal, Beef whispers to me, and Vader snuffles a laugh.

  I blink. What?

/>   I got twenty Milk-Bone dog biscuits that say you won’t make it four weeks in your first assignment, Z. You will definitely be reassigned.

  Vader is whimpering at this point, he’s working so hard to hold in his laughter. I’m hotter than winter fur in July, but all I can manage to retort is, YOU will be.

  Dave, up there at the podium, seems so certain of these assignments. I trust him and his authenticity. He looks at his stack of important papers and says, “So, without further ado, let’s hear our pairings, shall we?”

  Beef barks, Yes! and the audience laughs. Class clown.

  “Vader Aloysius?” Huh. I didn’t know Vader’s middle name was Aloysius. Vader’s handler leads him to the front of the cafeteria. “Vader here will be a bomb-sniffing dog for the NYPD!” Dave flips the tassel of Vader’s hat to the other side, and the audience barks with applause. Vader’s smirk says he’s just as surprised to find himself graduating as we are.

  “Melody Cookie?” Melody is assigned to a search-and-rescue team.

  “Spark Pug?” Sparky will be an emotional support pug.

  “Bo Addison?” Bo will work for the Coast Guard as a water rescue dog.

  “Rosie Abeyta?” Rosie will be, as we all knew, a service dog to Colonel Victor Abeyta.

  “Beeftastic Luckydog?” Beef winks at me, trots to the front of the room. “Beef here will work for an exclusive unit of New Jersey’s K-9 division.” Beef, wearing a badge? Well, I’ll be flea-bitten.

  “And now for our honored valedictorian.” Dave smiles at me. My chin rises and my jowls pull back. I love you, Dave! “Our top dog has shown exemplary courage and intelligence. He is quick to pick up new commands, and he never, ever forgets his mission. This dog comes from a long line of heroes: both of his parents were K-9 dogs, and his grandfather was a search-and-rescue superstar.”

  I can hear my family drumming through my memories now: Guten tag, Zeus. Chin up. Strong jaw. Tall ears. And most loudly among these voices, my dad: The best service dogs in the world are never seen. Just like your tail. You turn, your tail is gone. Be like your tail. Invisible is safe.

  Be your tail.

  Be my tail. Be my tail. Be my tail.

  Dave continues, “If ever there was a dog you can count on to do something by the book, it is this dog. Congratulations, Zeus Zagnut Zealousness!”

  Beef and Vader double over with laughter at my full name. Here at Canine College, humans who donate a lot of money are allowed to name the puppies. Me, I got saddled with the old triple Z.

  I walk to the front of the cafeteria, my heart pounding. My toenails click on the cold linoleum floor. Here it is: my life’s calling! I’ve been training at Canine College for months so I, like the rest of my family, can be a hero. What will I be? A narcotics-sniffing dog? A K-9 commander? A cadaver recovery dog?

  Dave stoops and looks me in the eyes: authentic. Words are labels, and they help you understand and categorize the world. My dad taught me to appreciate labels. They’re just like commands, my dad used to say. Commands are orders, and orders create order.

  Dave is earnest as he leans forward and whispers into my tall ear, “Zeus, you need this assignment as much as this assignment needs you.” I’m not sure what he means by that. He flips my tassel and announces to the audience, “Zeus here will be a diabetic alert dog to a young man at nearby Page Middle School.”

  Middle school?

  There is no barking applause.

  There are no cheers or whistles or attaboy, Zeuses or words that feel like glorious fingernail scratches.

  There might’ve been a gasp. Or two.

  Based on the silence of the crowd (well, except for Beef, who snorfed a laugh), I realize:

  Middle school must be the most dangerous assignment of them all!

  ★ 2 ★

  The Boy Who Captures Stars

  Assignment is good. Reassignment is bad. The bad must all live inside the re part of the word, because:

  A means singular. One.

  Sign. Indication or warning.

  Mint. Delicious zingy red-and-white candy.

  When Dave and the other humans from Canine College discuss our assignment, I’m tail-wagging excited. I love peppy mints, because minty-fresh drool is the best kind of drool, and our assignment is what we’ve been working toward this whole time. I await my candy.

  But instead of candy I get a human. My new human’s name is Madden, and he comes to my school at the prison later that same day. I’ve trained with him in the past, but I didn’t know he’d end up being my assignment. Canine College has a lot of volunteers who take us out of the prison during the sunny yellow hours for “real-world” training, which always confused me because isn’t all of it the real world? Anyway, when I’d trained with Madden, I thought he was one of those volunteers. Temporary. Temporary is a fancy human word that means just for now.

  Madden’s a young pup, not much taller than the tips of my ears. He’s on the small side; I’m on the tall side—we’re a matched set. Today he has on a hat that is backward, so a big tuft of hair sticks out the front of it, like a forehead tail. He chews gum vigorously; it’s like chewing powers his whole body. And he wears glasses that are so dirty, I can’t see his eyes clearly through the muck.

  This human does things that don’t make sense.

  But this is my new human—MY NEW HUMAN!—so I wiggle hello, lick and prance and preen and wag. Hello, my new human!

  “Hi,” the boy says around his mouthful of gum. “How are you, boy?” I look at him closely, try to figure out his word. None comes to me. Between their smell and their sound, I can usually label each human quickly. Labeling is wise because it reminds you how to handle each person. It creates order. But I can’t peg Madden yet. Madden is not quite what he seems to be.

  And then he does something weird. He doesn’t pet me or hug me or scratch me. He just . . . looks at me. Like he’s trying to figure out my word.

  I can tell him my word: practical. So I tell him that: I’m practical. That’s not my name, of course. My name is Zeus. And I’m practical.

  Dave’s gaze bounces between the two of us like a tennis ball. “Madden’s mom and I will be right outside filling out paperwork while you two practice commands, okay?”

  I hadn’t even noticed Madden’s mom. That usually happens when someone doesn’t notice me as well. Invisibility is mutually agreed upon.

  Invisible is a good thing for a service dog. It is the goal.

  Madden’s mother and Dave leave. Madden and I look at each other longer. I inhale and realize what I should monitor for Madden: his honey-scented blood. His blood has chemicals in it, medicine. It smells almost like plastic. I know right away that I’m supposed to let him know if his blood changes. If it drops too salty, if it flutters too squeaky sweet.

  Madden squats next to me. His chewing gum pops. He nods, but I don’t know why; no one has asked a question. There is nothing to agree with.

  “Listen, Zeus,” Madden says quietly. “You . . . weren’t my idea.”

  You weren’t my idea, either, I say. I’m not sure what that means, but it sounded like I needed to say that right there.

  “My mom really wanted me to get a dog for my diabetes, which is so stupid, because I have all this tech that does the same stuff. Two years, I’ve been doing it this way. I mean, I made it to eleven without you.”

  I made it to eleven without you, too. Now I’m really confused because I don’t know what any of this means, but I learned in school that it’s very important to mirror what your human does, and I don’t want to mess any of this up. This isn’t how I pictured getting paired with my new human.

  I try to puzzle it out like I learned to do in school: all I know is that eleven is a human number. Numbers might as well be clouds, the way they shift and change shape and move out of view. You can’t chew a cloud. I don’t trust anything you can’t chew.

  Madden sits. His smell flushes sour, like garbage. Not dangerous, but sad.

  At last, he hangs an a
rm across my neck. He doesn’t pet or pat or scratch me, just . . . hangs his arm over me. Like a buddy. An equal. I perk up.

  We’re teammates.

  “No offense, buddy, but the way to survive middle school is to lay low. Stay under the radar. Be invisible. Having a huge German shepherd follow you everywhere is way above radar, you know? Geez.”

  Survive?

  Well, now.

  No one told me middle school was a matter of life or death.

  And it’s nice to know my dad and Madden agree: being invisible is the best kind of existence. Invisible is safe. That is all the confirmation I need.

  I tighten my jaw, lift my chin. You can count on me, Madden. I will not let you down. We will survive. We will remain invisible. You have my solemn vow.

  My mission here is clear: keep Madden from standing out in middle school.

  “Who wants to go for a ride?” Dave asks the question.

  I bark.

  We get in a big truck. I am in the back seat, and the windows are down, and I love who wants to go for a ride? so much. But Dave doesn’t get in, too. Dave doesn’t get in, too!

  I knew this day was coming, of course. But here it is, surprising me like stinging, icy snowflakes.

  I won’t whine. I won’t.

  I whine. Dave blinks a couple of times.

  I love you, Dave.

  “I love you, Zeus. You’re gonna be a superstar.”

  We drive away. Dave lives in the prison, so he can’t come with us. Lots of us service dogs are trained in prisons by the people who live there, who never leave there. So now I have to leave Dave behind those bars.

  My heart feels like the gravel crunching beneath these tires. Soon, outside rushes in through the window and hugs me with chilly wind, wind that smells like ice cubes and frosty leaves and pale sunshine. My fur tinkles. I feel better, because I have a mission!

  Madden’s mother drives. She smells like cleaning chemicals, crisp and blank as paper, and she moves like a ticking clock, tickticktick. Her word is obviously precise. Precise like clicking toenails. Precise like clippers snipping my fur. Yes, that’s her word. It is easy to love someone who is precise. You know exactly what you are getting.

  We pull up to a small shack with a man inside. Madden’s mother hands over a tiny plastic card with her picture on it, and the fellow glances at it. “You guys get a pet, Lieutenant?” the man in the small shack says. He smiles at me.