“Jump! I’ll push you over the tailgate!” With her lame foot she’d never make it without help. Ava jumps, and I jump and push.
“Ouch! You don’t have to be so rough,” she complains once safely inside.
Finally, she notices that I’m stuck, hanging half in and half out of the big, brown box truck. Uh, oh, it starts to move. We’re in the middle of a daytime burglary. The truck is half-full of stolen Christmas presents, and some of the loot belongs to our kids, Abby and Matthew.
The thieves are dopes. They didn’t even bother to close the tailgate. The guy driving steers like he has a bad case of hiccups. He jerks along the road causing my legs to swing back and forth inches from the street. I claw at a hunk of carpet that lines the truck bed. My weight pulls carpet, loot, and me further toward the street. I brace waiting to slam onto the asphalt.
Something wraps around my neck, like a noose. “Ava, what are you doing?” She’s pulling on a long rope she found attached to a ladder in the truck, trying to get it around me. Does she really think she’ll suddenly get super strength and single-handedly pull me up? Being the logical one, I figure I’ll either choke or drop to the road and be skinned. Her strength gives out, but I’m ready. As soon as I feel pavement, I push—hard. I used to jump hurdles. I exceed my goal and bounce higher than planned. I fly past Ava and crash against the front wall of the truck body. Panting for air, I’m glad I landed on a soft, lumpy bag.
I open my eyes and see Ava staggering with the movement of the truck. She’s picking her way through the thieves’ swag to get to me. Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have wanted her near me in any circumstance. That’s when I first saw her. It was obvious she’s a beautiful but spoiled brat. She is, but she does have some positive characteristics. Brains may not be one of them. It was her idea to follow the thugs and get in the truck. I’d still be standing in the backyard gloating that I’d scared them away.
“You almost strangled me.”
Looking only slightly repentant, she apologizes. “I’m sorry Bart, I was just trying to help.”
“You should have let me grab the rope with my teeth. Boxers have a powerful bite unlike you elegant Collies.”
The day we met, Matthew and I were wrestling in the backyard. Mister Beckwith led a strange, limping female out of his van. I had to admit, even that first day, Ava is a gorgeous, golden vision. Being a Boxer with a clipped stub on my backside, I admire the graceful swish of her long, fury tail. She has a sleek, award-winning snout, too, not a squashed muzzle like mine.
Mister B took her straight to my boy, Matthew. “Ava’s a toy Collie,” he said.
That explained her petite size. She’s no big Border Collie raised to herd sheep.
“Her owners raise show dogs,” he went on. He pointed to her right paw. “Her leg bends to the right because she has a green-tree break. It will never heal properly, so they asked me to take her to the animal shelter tomorrow.”
Matthew asked if the animal shelter is the same as the Dog Pound where they found me.
“Same thing,” confirmed Mr. B.
Matthew looked sad about that. Still, he didn’t think much of her. Too dainty for his eleven-year-old taste. Abby, his four-year-old sister, however claimed Ava for her own. She fussed all the next day until Mister and Missus B agreed to keep her. I sleep on a nice-enough rug in my kennel in a corner of the kitchen. Ava gets a soft, doggie pillow upstairs next to Abby’s bed. They’ve been pretty much inseparable since day one.
Ava taunted me constantly at first, but she could do no wrong in Abby’s eyes. She’d say, “Are you a Pit Bull? You’ve got awfully big paws. Where’s your tail?”
“I’m a Boxer,” I informed her. I’m supposed to have a clipped tail.”
She never let up. “Don’t you ever get your nails cut; they look like talons. I’ve seen Boxers at shows; they’re always well-groomed and have sharp, pointed ears, not soft, floppy ones like yours. I think you’re a mutt.”
I didn’t tell her, but that really crushed my spirit. I’m a sixty-five-pound, faun-colored Boxer, broad and muscular at the shoulder, slim at the rear, and I’m still growing. Sadly, I was rejected as a puppy. Something’s wrong with my private parts. My owners couldn’t use me for breeding, so they just wanted to get rid of me. One day, they dropped me off at the Dog Pound. Mister B said he didn’t care about breeding; he just wanted me to be a family pet and guard dog. I can still hear the lady calling after us as we got in the car, “At least have his ears cropped; he looks like a mongrel.” But Mister and Missus B and Matthew didn’t care about that, either.
It was getting close to Christmas. The tree was up. One night, Missus B set some wrapped gifts under it. “Honey,” she said—she always calls Mister B, Honey, —we should leave Bart’s kennel open at night so he can roam through the house.”
“Good idea, Sweetheart,” Mister B agreed. He always calls Missus B, Sweetheart. “A Boxer is always protective of his family. It’s too bad that people steel things during the holidays, but they do. I’m sure Bart will let us know if anyone is prowling around.”
Two nights later, after the lights were turned off and everyone went to bed, I heard a noise outside the back door. That door has windows, and a light was shining through them into our living room. I gave out my loudest, fiercest bark. Ava pranced downstairs as quick as a bunny. She stood next to me and barked her sharp, shrill yelp. When she barks, she leans forward on her front paws and bounces up onto her hind legs. Cute but not scary. The light went out, and we heard human footsteps running away. That’s when we started to be friends, but it isn’t easy. We not only look different, the way we think is really different. One thing we have in common, though we’re both rejects, misfits, Dog Pound puppies.
This morning, Mister B let us out in the fenced yard while the whole family went someplace in the van. We took care of our business and were stretching our legs when we saw the truck park in front of the house. Those crooks had watched until no one was home and we were penned up. They took whatever they could grab quickly from our house and went in the house next door. We barked like mad dogs, but they didn’t have to worry about us—so they thought.
I jumped against the gate. It opened! No one had latched it! That’s when gutsy Ava sprinted past me. I was right behind her. She climbed the boxes waiting to be loaded into the truck, but couldn’t quite reach the tailgate. We heard the neighbor’s burglar alarm. That brought the thugs racing to the truck. They didn’t bother to load the goods, just took off with me hanging.
Now, the pads on my back paws are screaming like they’re on fire. It’s from the pavement burn I got jumping into the truck. I start to lick them.
Ava watches. “What do we do now?” she asks. Like I have it all figured out.
“You’re the one that got us into this. What do you suggest?” I challenge. The irritation I feel in my paws registers in my voice.
“I’m sorry Bart, really. I didn’t know they would drive off without closing the gate. I was just going to push our family’s packages out.”
Just then we swerve and hit a bump. It knocks Ava off her paws. She lands on her side and skids into a pile of dirt in the corner. “You okay?” I call, concerned about her vulnerable, lame paw.
“I need a good brushing,” she whines while spitting dead bugs and dust out of her mouth. Pieces of dried maple leaves are tangled in her thick, shiny coat.
I’m feeling no sympathy for her temporary condition, so easy to fix. I continue licking my wounded pads. I have to admit, though, she is gutsy. She’s the one who wanted to rescue Abby’s and Matthew’s presents.
“How would you have decided which packages belong to our family?” I ask.
“I didn’t think about that. Like you always tell me, I’m only bright on the outside. But with this bent paw and covered in dirt, I’m not so good on any side.”
“Don’t say that. I think you’re beautiful and brave, too. You’re the one who had the courage to chase those thieving pirates.”
“Right, maybe I should have thought about that first.” Not risking standing up, she crawls over to me. “You’re the one who’s brave and strong, Bart. Hey what’s this, all these short hairs on the floor? I hope they’re not mouse hair. I don’t like mice.”
I don’t answer, so she asks a second time. I’m trapped. I have to confess, “It’s my hair. When I’m stressed, I shed—a lot. My first owners took me from my mother too soon, as soon as they knew I couldn’t make money for them. I didn’t get much to eat after that. I was tossed into a large, outdoor pen with the big dogs. They copped all the food for themselves and bullied me just to see me shake with fear. Whenever I’m stressed, for any reason, I shed so much I sometimes have bald spots. Now you know, I’m not brave. I’m really just a scared puppy.” I figure she can’t understand, her with her plush coat and perfect tail.
Ava doesn’t say anything for a while. And then, “I broke my leg jumping over a hurdle in a show. Now, I’m ashamed to say, I’m too scared to jump at all not even over a little rock or twig.”
We’re both quiet for a while. Ava rests her head on her crossed paws, “Maybe we should forget the presents and just jump out.”
I know she can’t make a jump out of a moving vehicle, not with her lame paw. It would likely cause her to re-break her leg or suffer more injuries. She knows she’s too scared to even try, so I just stare at her.
“Well, you could jump out, Bart. You could get help. When they do stop, they’ll let me go if I’m docile.”
“Docile? Really? You want me to jump out on these injured pads while you stake your life on those two rogues being nice to you?” Clearly, she hadn’t thought through the problems of that half-bone of an idea. While I keep licking my pads, I’m using pieces of her thinking to form a plan two second-rate dogs like us just might be able to pull off. I stand up, wincing as my weight comes down on my pads. I head for the open door.
“Don’t jump, Bart. I’ll be lost without you.” She sounds frantic. A few minutes ago, she was encouraging me to go. I look back at her.
“I’m not leaving,” I assure her. “Come over here and help me push these packages across the tailgate.”
“You’re going to dump the kids presents onto the road?”
“That’s right, Ava. We need the truck to stop and we need to create a disturbance.”
“I don’t remember which boxes belong to our family,” she says, still not catching on.
“Doesn’t matter, Ava.”
The first bag is soft and doesn’t weigh much. I grip it with my teeth locked together and pull it by myself to the edge of the tailgate. A little nudge and it falls out. We wait. The truck keeps going.
“Obviously, the driver doesn’t use his rearview mirror. Let’s get a bigger one. That box over there.”
“But Bart, whatever is in there will break when it hits the pavement.”
“Maybe it will,” I answer. “Maybe it won’t. Do you have another plan?”
She doesn’t.
“Come on, push with your paws like you do when you bark.” We get behind a box as tall as my shoulder. I butt into it with my head. Ava demonstrates a talent I don’t have. She raises up on her hind legs, waddles over to the box, plants both front paws against it, and walks forward. Together we move the box. Once started, it slides easier until over the edge it goes. The driver in the car behind us swerves, lays on his horn, and passes us. Our truck moves to the side of the road and stops. We need to have some humans to help us, but now I see that this is a back road. No one’s around, no buildings of any kind. The cars not only don’t stop; they don’t even slow down. I should have waited for a city street.
The driver gets out of the cab. Heading for the castoff box, he doesn’t look our way. When he carries the box back toward the truck, I get worried.
“Quick, Ava, hide behind the big TV box. Nothing good can happen here.”
Ava scurries, and I limp as fast as I can. Driver Guy’s hat has a brim that blocks the sun and, thankfully, keeps him from seeing much inside the truck. He shoves the box in without looking and slams the gate closed. I feel Ava panting quietly beside me, but I can’t see her.
“I’m sorry, Ava, I muffed it.”
“You sure did,” she agrees using her soft voice. We’re worse off now than before.”
I have to agree. Not only are we locked in, we’re in the dark. Our only option is to wait until they decide to stop. We stay behind the TV box. This time, we talk through a plan together. It isn’t long before we hear motors—trucks and cars. Our truck keeps stopping and starting like we’re at stop signs or traffic lights. We’re in the city again.
We feel the truck stop, back up, and stop, again. We wait. And wait. At last, we hear loud, human voices. They sound angry. And then the tailgate latch rattles. Ava scampers close to the door and lies down looking docile. I wait in the dark corner. The tailgate opens. I recognize Driver Guy. He’s still wearing his hat with the brim in front, but now he’s got a dark scarf tied across his face. He’s carrying a Santa Clause-size bag, stuffed with more loot, over his shoulder.
A shorter guy with long, shaggy hair and scruffy whiskers wears an unbuttoned, plaid shirt. His bandana slips down to his neck. He has a smaller bag in one hand. It’s bulging, too. A group of humans come toward them. They’re yelling at the bad guys. Why don’t they stop them? Then I see. Scruffy Guy has pulled out one of those stubby, ugly guns humans use. When he waves it around and tells them to back off, the group fall back and no one speaks. I don’t blame them. I can feel patches of fur dropping from my coat.
While the guy with the gun keeps the crowd away, Driver Guy spots Ava. He’s distracted and hesitates.
“A dog,” he says out loud. “How did you get here?”
Ava opens her mouth and looks up at him like she’s smiling. She stays still. Scruffy Guy turns to see what Driver Guy is talking about. Now he’s distracted. “Get that mutt out of there,” he yells at Driver Guy.
Driver Guy drops his bag and reaches for Ava. She’s ready. She clamps down on his bare hand with her short, sharp teeth. He yelps, snatches the scarf from his face, and wraps it around the wounded hand. That’s when I make my move. I pull myself up as tall as I can and show my impressive, clenched teeth. I move toward the open tailgate looking straight at Driver Guy. I don’t bark. I snarl a long, deep, throaty growl. As I lunge, Driver Guy screams. My full weight hits his chest and drives him backwards against his buddy. Scruffy Guy hits the pavement with Driver Guy on top of him. The bag of goods flops to the sidewalk spilling toys onto the grass.
I stand with all my paws planted on the thieves and hold them down. The people rush up. One tall guy wearing cowboy boots stomps on Scruffy Guy’s arm and kicks the gun away. I hear sirens. Two squad cars stop in the middle of the street and the sirens turn off. Officers wearing official-looking uniforms get out. I don’t move until they get close. One pulls out his gun and aims it at me!
“Not me” I bark. I’m the good dog, here.
Ava is on her feet yelping. “Bart come over here.”
The crowd is yelling. Some are clapping and whistling. Some take pictures of us with their cell phones. I get off the robbers and go back to the truck. I’m so excited I don’t even feel my sore pads. Ava paces back and forth in the width of the truck body wanting to get out. Her tail swishes nervously.
“Jump down,” I tell her. “It’s not far. Jump against me. I’ll cushion your fal… uh landing.” Back and forth she paces three more times. I try again, “Reach out, Ava. Remember how you bounced down the stairs the night we scared the prowler away. Use me like a stair step.”
She turns and stretches her front legs toward me. Her front paws hit my back. Her paws slide down my shoulder. Thruff. The thick, soft fur of her body connects with my hard muscles, but I stand firm.
Her paws slip gently to the ground. At the same time, her back paws reach the pavement…a four-paw landing.
“You did it, Ava.”
“Only with your help, Bart.”
We watch while the bad guys are cuffed and shoved into a squad car. Everything will be okay, now. A police lady comes over.
“Sit,” she tells us as a test. We sit.
She checks the tags on my collar. One is for my veterinarian; one has my name and address on it. Ava has a collar, but her tags haven’t been attached, yet. Police Lady hooks a leash on each of us and calls one of the police guys over. She hands my leash to him. They start to chat, so we lie down to wait. Pretty soon, a police van arrives. I feel my collar get tight. Police Guy is pulling me toward his squad car. Police Lady is pulling Ava toward the van. That’s when I know their plan. They’ll take Ava to the Dog Pound while I get a back seat squad car ride home.
Ava balks and whimpers. She’s not going to the pound. She’s got a home. I pull back. Police Guy pulls harder on my leash. I jump and twist and snarl until my collar is choking me. Ava should climb in the car with me. I bite on the leash trying to get free. Ava lies down and rolls over wrapping her leash around her.
I can’t pull any harder, so I run toward Police Guy. He’s surprised and just stands there. I run circles around him wrapping the leash around his legs. He falls over and relaxes his grip on the leash. As soon as he unwraps himself, I bound over to Ava dragging the leash with me. She gets up and allows Police Lady to straighten out her leash. I pant, trying to catch my breath.
Finally, we lie down and await our fate. Police Lady and Police Guy talk on their phones. The van from the Dog Pound drives away. Then a different van drives up. I give a yelp when I see Mister B and Matthew and Abby coming toward us. Abby gives Ava a big hug and Matthew rubs me all over. It starts to snow. Suddenly I’m cold and I want to go home.
“It was clear to us these two amazing dogs are faithful friends,” Police Lady tells Mister B. “They were not about to be separated.”
“I don’t know how they happened to be in that truck,” says Police Guy, “but we owe it to them that the Holiday Burglary Ring won’t ruin Christmas for anyone. We should be able to get all the presents back to their owners in a day or two.”
The ride home seems shorter than our ride in the back of the truck. It feels like it’s been a really long day, and I’m dog tired. Mister B puts what he calls, “balm,” on my back pads and wraps them with soft cloth while Matthew and Abby take Ava outside to brush her. After lapping up a whole bowlful of water, I lie down in front of the fireplace to get warm. Mister B scratches behind my ears with one hand and pulls doggie biscuits out of his pocket with the other. He feeds them to me one at a time right there on the carpet!
“Don’t let Missus B see this,” he tells me. “You did great, Bart, both you and Ava. We’re proud of you.”
Ava and the kids come in. She laps up her bowlful of water and joins us by the fire. She turns around and around, swishing her tail, to show me that all the leaves and bugs are gone. Because of her heavy coat, she lies down a bit further from the fire than I am and yawns. Mister B gives her a biscuit. Before we can doze off, Missus B comes in carrying the packages the thieves took.
“Just in time,” she says. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
The wrapping paper is torn a little, but at least none of the packages are squashed. I sniff and sneeze. They still have the musty scent of the old truck, but the humans don’t notice. Our kids sit down on the carpet with us and give us a lot of petting. Ah, it’s good to be home.
For two misfit pooches from an animal shelter, Ava and I are doing alright. We’re different, but we can still be friends. We’re lacking in some way; maybe we all are. We’ve both been rejected, but we’re still lovable. We just needed to find our family.
I hear “Silent Night” playing on the house speakers. My eyes are closed. I’m remembering how I tackled those two burglars. This is shaping up to be the best doggone Christmas ever.