Luna Howls at the Moon Read online

  Dedication

  For Sandi

  and for those who are growing

  through therapy and counseling

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Not Almost

  2. Uncertainty Is Like Drinking Muddy Water

  3. Beatrice the Knot

  4. Amelia the Shadow

  5. Caleb the Waterfall

  6. Hector the River Rock

  7. Nothing in Common Except

  8. Pickle Pressure

  9. Hope Is a Star

  10. A Teeth Moment

  11. Odd Numbers and Odd Things and Chess

  12. A Whole Dictionary of Hugs

  13. Here Come the Bats

  14. Vote: Borrow or Starve

  15. Surprise Feels Like a Snorf of Black Pepper

  16. In the Wide, Wide, Wide Open, With Thunder

  17. Buying the Moon

  18. Pebbles for Hearts

  19. Should’ve

  20. Light as Steam

  21. A Lonely Lost Dog Is the Saddest Echo

  22. This Is the Exception

  23. One Step. Two.

  24. Friends Don’t Let You Howl Alone

  25. The Debriefing of the Shadow

  26. The Debriefing of the Knot

  27. The Debriefing of the Waterfall

  28. Eagerness Feels Bubbly Like Soda

  29. Almost

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Kristin O’Donnell Tubb

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Not Almost

  Most of my clients don’t mind when I lick their tears away. Others want me to roll over and show them my belly. Still others just want the big, soft, blinky eyes coupled with a slow wag. Or a goofy jangle of my tags. Or letting my tongue loll out. Sometimes I chase my tail, even though it makes me dizzy and I know I’m never going to catch that rascal. But I do it because it makes the client happy. It’s all about the client. Reading them and responding. Making them feel safe. Secure. Confident. Each of us has a different hole that needs filling. My job as a therapy dog is to find the shape of that hole and fill it. That’s why my name is Luna. Just like the moon, I change shape. I become what others need to see.

  It works like . . . a yawn. Yaaaawwwwwn. When someone yawns, others yawn. It’s catching, but in a subtle, gentle way. That’s how it feels to pick up on others’ emotions.

  A yawn? My classmate Goliath scoffs when I ask him if that’s how the job works for him too. Hey, fellas! Luna here says her job is a big yawn. Maybe you need a new line of work, kid. Something more exciting—a rodeo dog, maybe? The circus?

  All the other dogs huddled in this too-bright church basement wag their tails, rattle their tags, sneeze. They laugh, but the emotion around their chuckles isn’t joy. It feels sharper, darker; honed to pierce like a thorn.

  My instinct is to be upset, but duty says I should remain calm. I often have to defy my instincts because my training says that I should be both calm and calming. Duty over instinct, always. So I laugh too, because I don’t want the others at Therapy Dogs Worldwide to think I’m weird or different or something.

  The only dog who doesn’t laugh is Samwise. Samwise has her 400-visit pin. That makes her a Distinguished Therapy Dog by TDW standards, and that’s all you need to know about Samwise. Impressive.

  Seriously, though, Luna. Take it from me. Goliath twitches and scratches his perky chihuahua ear. He’s the itchiest dog I’ve ever met. You get too close, Goliath says. You FEEL too much. All your clients want? To give you a pat here, a hug there. That’s it. You don’t owe them anything more than that. You need to grow thicker fur, kid.

  I hate it when Goliath calls me kid, because we’re the same age. That, and I’m about four times his size. I’m a silver Labrador, but Goliath makes me feel like a rusty mutt. We went through class together at Therapy Dogs Worldwide. Just because he earned his 50-visit pin faster than any other dog in our class—faster than any other dog in TDW history—he thinks his breath doesn’t stink. His head’s gotten so big I don’t know how they get his leash on.

  The light in this stuffy room shifts, and I feel sudden smiles in the air. “Okay, everyone,” says Barb, the leader of the local TDW chapter. I love her, so I let her know with a tail wag. “The photographer here wants to get several shots for the American-Statesman. All of Austin will read about what good dogs you are!”

  Good dogs. We wag. The joy caused by eight dogs all wagging tails together feels like a perfect slant of sunshine.

  “Okay, so, Roy,” Barb says, turning to the photographer. “We’re here tonight celebrating the dogs who just got their fifty-visit pin. Once the dogs have made fifty different visits to clients, they become official TDW therapy dogs, and we reward their hard work with one of these.” Barb holds up a small blue pin, and rays of light ping off it. It shines like a tiny star. It’s more beautiful than greasy sausage.

  “That’ll be yours soon, Luna,” Tessa whispers to me. Tessa. She’s my human. Well, I have lots of humans in my line of work, but she’s the main one. Tessa makes me imagine a honeybee: hardworking, always thinking of her hive. She rubs my soft ear and it feels so good my back leg thumps thank you thank you thank you.

  “So let’s start with a photo of all the dogs who have their fifty-visit pin, then,” the photographer, Roy, says. He waves his camera at a colorful sign. “Stand around that banner.”

  Every dog in the room moves toward the sign. Every dog but me. The air in this creepy-drippy basement darkens, and I feel like that perfect slant of sun has disappeared behind a cloud. I sulk.

  “Cheese!” the humans all shout, and I drool like I do every time humans take photos, because why do they always shout that?! Roy’s camera pops like firecrackers. He shifts his camera sideways and takes more photos. He changes positions and takes more photos. He stands on a chair and takes more photos.

  Alone I sit. I sulk harder. The air gets heavier. Grow thicker fur, Goliath said. How would that help? Every strand of my fur feels like a tiny rag, soaking up all the moods around me. How would having more fur help? What’s wrong with me that I feel so much? All the time?

  “So why aren’t they wearing vests?” Roy asks, waving the lens of his camera over the gang of dogs between clicks. “They’re service dogs, right?”

  Barb smiles. “I’m glad you asked that, Roy. No, they aren’t service dogs. They’re therapy dogs. A bit like emotional support dogs, but they comfort many people, not just one. Some of these dogs visit hospitals, some visit retirement centers. Some are placed in schools and libraries to help with reading programs. Some work with therapists and counselors as they meet with their clients. But therapy dogs wear bandannas instead of vests because they are meant to be hugged and petted as often as possible. These dogs are heroes.”

  That’s what I want to be too. A hero. And I’m almost there. When I get that pin, everyone will know it. They will know I put duty first. I think of that shiny pin and I can’t help but wag. And so, the air shifts again. Shimmery this time, like starlight poking holes in the dark. I smile and my tongue lolls out of my mouth. I will be a star.

  Barb looks over at Tessa and me, standing on the opposite side of the room, alone. Her face changes, and I feel her pity. Pity feels green and tight and sour like wild apples.

  “Oh, can we get one more photo with Luna in it?” Barb asks. “She’s only nine visits away from her fifty-visit pin. Such a good girl.”

  I love Barb. I tell her this again with my tail. I stand, ready to be photographed and famous.

  “Can’t,” Roy says, sla
mming his camera equipment into multiple bags and zipping them shut. “Gotta go shoot the school board meeting next.”

  Goliath snickers loudly, and the others follow suit. So close there, Luna. SO CLOSE. You sure seem to live a life of almosts.

  What a bunch of thorns.

  As if she hears them, my honeybee Tessa scratches my neck. “Nine visits, girl. Almost there. The next party will be for you.”

  Nine visits. Nine more client visits and I’ll get my own tiny star pinned to my bandanna. The tiny star that will let everyone know I’m not weird or different or something. That I take my duty seriously. That I’m not almost.

  2

  Uncertainty Is Like Drinking Muddy Water

  Who’s ready to go to work?” Tessa asks, and I bark and wag and spinspinspin as a reply. Tessa knots my bandanna around my neck. It’s crisp and red and it smells like months of comforting kid humans. Like laughter and tears and hugs and sighs.

  I love the routine Tessa and I have. I study feelings. I try to define emotions. I don’t understand them all, and sometimes they overwhelm me. That’s when I remember my duty: calm and calming. But the routine is nice: wake, eat, work, sleep. Quiet habits fill our days.

  Tessa tugs the bandanna around my neck and gives me a delicious scratch. We feel excited and a bit nervous today, it seems; it feels like the thrill of riding in a car with the windows down, all bugs and wind and sun, but the road is curvy and bumpy.

  We are trying something new.

  “This group session will be good,” Tessa says, running her fingers over my sleek ears. But it sounds like she’s saying this to herself rather than to me. Humans do that a lot to dogs: tell them things they need to hear themselves. Things like she’s a good girl and I love you. Tessa continues, “I’ve decided we’re going to focus on managing emotions in this group. My mentor says group sessions can sometimes get out of hand, but I don’t think we need to worry about that with these kids. We know these kids, don’t we, Luna? They’re great. It’ll be great.”

  This group thing: it’s not our regular routine. It’s new. New feels uncertain, like drinking muddy water. You’re never quite sure what you’re getting from a mud puddle. But I trust Tessa. And I trust these clients of ours.

  It is the orange part of the day, and sun paints everything the color of poppies. Tessa lifts a plastic tub full of art supplies out of the back of her car and settles it on her hip. But instead of us going to our cozy trailer in the church parking lot like we usually do, she uses a key to unlock the door down to the church basement. The same basement where I didn’t become famous because they didn’t take my picture for the paper. Almost.

  I don’t like this place. I pause going down the narrow wooden steps.

  Tessa must sense my hesitation, because she smiles her sunflower smile, the one that turns people toward her. “We have to meet as a group down here, Luna. Not enough room in our trailer. We can be brave.”

  It’s not a question, and I love that about Tessa. She knows when to ask for bravery, and when to announce it’s needed.

  I totter down the stairs and into the drippy, weird basement. The lights flicker on in sections like lightning. I hear a toilet running, so I seek it out down a dark hallway and take huge gulps of cold water before we start our day. Whew. Much better. There’s nothing in the world a little toilet water can’t fix.

  When I return, Tessa has spilled colorful art supplies all over the tabletops, and my tail wags because ART! Art smells like glue and paint and crayons and oils and it makes humans feel hummy happy, like shimmery, buzzing birds sipping sugar water.

  Anticipation is like hearing the word walk, seeing the leash, but then not leaving right away. It’s what I feel now. I wait for my clients to arrive. Should I sit? No, too casual. Stand? Too formal. I pace, because I’m uncertain what to expect with all my clients here in one room, together. Tessa feels the same. She chews on a piece of rubber, blows a bubble, and pop! Cracks it against her lips.

  Caleb arrives first. My ears perk toward him. “Where’s the chessboard?”

  Tessa smiles. “I have it, but I thought we might start with some art first.”

  Caleb feels as hesitant as a dog on a too-short leash. My whiskers twitter. But he enters and picks a seat in front of a rainbow of oil paints. His knee bounces beneath the table and the paints dance across the tabletop before he realizes that his long, lanky legs are the ones making them hop.

  Without asking Tessa, Caleb leaps up, takes one of the bowls of water that are supposed to be for art, and places it near my paws. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even meet my eyes, but he seems to know I was thirsty earlier. I thank him with my tail. He drops back into his chair and his knees bounce more.

  Amelia and Hector arrive at the same moment. My nostrils twitch between the two of them, trying to untangle the air around them so I can sense each one. Amelia hugs me quickly (she smells like grass) and then glides to the paints too. Hector bumps down the stairs with his bike over his shoulder, then chooses a spot far down the table, next to a pile of wrinkly magazines and a snarl of scissors.

  Waterfall. Rock. Shadow. That’s what these three are.

  I feel the Knot approach before she even enters. She bang bang bangs down the basement steps in her tooth-boots and falls into a metal chair that groans in reply. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Beatrice the Knot sits in front of a huge lump of clay. Her jeans are worn and spattered with paint, almost as if she got a head start on arting.

  Tessa talks about groups and growth, and I stand nearby and sniiiiiiffff. Twitch my whiskers. Adjust my ears. It’s odd, all these feelings together, like trying to sort through the smells wafting off a lovely garbage can.

  And then they create. Art makes humans see things the same way the artist sees them, and it makes humans see things differently than they have before. Both same and different. And creating art makes human feelings smooth out, brighten, clarify, like a sheen of ice over a nighttime pond.

  When the Knot and the Shadow, the Waterfall and the Rock start arting, they focus. They stick tongues out of the corners of their mouths. They sit less erect. They breathe evenly.

  It’s working! I wag at Tessa. These clients are loosening, lightening.

  Beatrice moves from massaging a lump of clay to pounding it. She stands to pound better, pound pound pound. She doesn’t seem to notice the glare that Caleb shoots her as the paints leap around the table. Amelia grins down at her piece of paper and keeps swooshing colors across it like comets. Hector cuts apart panels of a comic strip from a newspaper, snip snip snip.

  Beatrice pounds more, lifts her chin at Hector’s comic. “You know, at my school they won’t let us read graphic novels for book reports? Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  Pound pound pound. Snip snip snip. The room is silent.

  Caleb bites his bottom lip. We feel undecided, I realize. But he says it anyway: “Probably not THE stupidest, but yes. Pretty ridiculous.”

  Beatrice pauses the pounding. I can’t get a read on her feelings because we’re swirling through so many so quickly. “You like graphic novels?”

  Caleb nods once. “I do.”

  “Which ones?” The way Beatrice says it, it sounds more like blame than a question.

  “Bone. Amulet. And I read lots of comics.”

  “Marvel or DC?”

  “Marvel, of course.”

  Beatrice smirks, and if I were human, I might be confused by that. But I know by her scent that she’s satisfied with that answer. This is working! I wag more.

  Pound pound pound. Snip snip snip. The room is silent again.

  “You could start a petition, you know.” Caleb bites his lip again, dabs his paintbrush in gray paint. He is painting a chessboard, I see.

  “A what?” Pound pound pound.

  “A petition. It’s a formally written request. A document that—”

  “I know what a petition is!” Beatrice cocks her head at Caleb, and the bun on
top of her head slides around like a tennis ball. I copy her; I cock my head too. Always let the client take the lead. Duty first. “I just didn’t know what you meant by that.”

  “You could draw up a petition to change that rule about graphic novels. Write something up on your computer. Get all your friends to sign it. Give it to the administrators. Maybe they’d change that rule.” Caleb says all of this without once looking up from the gray-and-white chessboard he’s painting.

  Beatrice narrows her eyes at him. I narrow my eyes too. Our lips flatten. “You don’t know if that would work,” she says.

  “I do know.”

  It is quiet, so he continues. “At my school there was this form we all had to fill out. And on it, you had to pick your race. White, African American, Native American, Asian American . . . you know. But checking white felt like I was choosing my dad’s family over my mom’s and checking Black felt like I was choosing Mom’s family over Dad’s. You’d think they’d have a box that said Multiracial, but they didn’t. I knew they wanted me to check Other, you know? But I didn’t like that term. Other. So I started a petition where we could check more than one box.”

  It is the most I’ve ever heard Caleb talk. He dips his paintbrush in gray paint again. It is still quiet, but Beatrice wears a small grin. Amelia nods. Hector stops snipping.

  “And I won,” Caleb tells his chessboard. “Now I check more than one box.”

  Beatrice nods. Knocks the table. This story satisfies her, like a nice steak taco. “More than one box. Dude. I get that.”

  They continue to art.

  Pound pound pound. Snip snip snip.

  Beatrice leans over Amelia’s painting. “Wow! Wouldja look at that!”

  Amelia burns like she’s had too much sun on her skin, but she beams.

  “Is that a bomb?” Beatrice says, pointing at Amelia’s paper. Amelia nods.

  Tessa scoots over there, and I feel her have a flutter of panic at this. “A bomb?” She leans over the painting. Her heart calms and she says, “Oh! It’s exploding with flowers! How lovely, Amelia.”

  “My grammy used to say this thing,” Beatrice says quietly. “She always said she wasn’t fragile like a flower; she was fragile like a bomb.”