The Trouble with Tuck Read online

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  YEARLING BOOKS are designed especially to entertain and enlighten young people. Patricia Reilly Giff, consultant to this series, received her bachelor's degree from Marymount College and a master's degree in history from St. John's University. She holds a Professional Diploma in Reading and a Doctorate of Humane Letters from Hofstra University. She was a teacher and reading consultant for many years, and is the author of numerous books for young readers.

  Acknowledgment

  I am indebted to the Orser family of San Francisco—Tony, Barbara, Stanley, Leland, Scrafford, Henson, and Gilbert—for this story. Their beloved champion-stock Labrador, big Bonanza, became blind early in life and mostly defied the condition. Listening to his exploits, I was guided on tours of his haunts and habits around upper Clay Street and in the Presidio, in the fields, and on the beaches where he romped. Though encased in darkness, Bonanza was always a noble fighter and dedicated lover, living to an old age, aided by a companion dog. Finally I visited his grave on a rocky hillside over Pacific waters north of the Golden Gate. His dominant personality, free spirit, pride, and dignity served as the character model for Friar Tuck Golden Boy. Parts of this novel appeared in Ladies’ Home Journal, May 1977, under the title “Scrappy's Miracle.”

  THEODORE TAYLOR

  LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA

  To my son, Michael, with love

  1

  No one can definitely say when Friar Tuck began to go blind, not even Dr. Douglas Tobin, who was undoubtedly one of the best veterinarians in California. But the light probably began to fail for big Tuck long before any of us suspected it, and of course, being a dog, he couldn't very well talk about it.

  I suppose that exactly when the shadows began creeping in, or when he finally slid into total darkness, doesn't really matter.

  Yet I can clearly recall that miserably hot summer day so long ago when we first thought something might be wrong with Tuck. It didn't seem possible. Young, beautiful, so free-spirited, he had a long life ahead.

  But the August of Tuck's third year on earth, my father, an electronics engineer, flew to Chicago on business, and the next day, a Monday, about midmorning, some neighborhood cats got into a noisy brawl along our back fence, spitting and screeching.

  To Friar Tuck, that was always an unpardonable sin. Not only were these cats intruding in his yard, a private and sacred kingdom, but, worse, they were creating an ear-splitting disturbance. His answer was immediate attack, as usual.

  My mother was in the kitchen at the time and heard him scramble on the slick linoleum, trying to get traction with his paws, and as she turned, she saw him plunge bodily through the screen door, ripping a gaping hole in the wire mesh.

  Up in my room, making my bed as I remember, I heard her yell, something she seldom did, and, thinking she'd hurt herself, I hurried downstairs and out to the kitchen.

  Mother was standing by the back door, looking outside, puzzlement all over her face, which was usually a mirror of calmness. She still had her hand on top of her head, having forgotten it was there. Putting fingers to her hair was a familiar gesture when calamity occurred.

  “Tuck just went through this door!” she exclaimed, unable to believe it. The hand came down slowly. “I declare.” She was a Southern lady but had lost most of her way of speaking.

  I then saw the big hole in the wire, as if something had exploded there.

  “Some cats were fighting, and he got up and ran right through the door.” Mother was awed.

  I was sure that Tuck was far too intelligent to do a stupid thing like that. He'd always put on skidding brakes and just barked loudly if there was something outside disturbing him.

  I said, “Maybe he was dreaming?”

  Mother scoffed, “Helen!”

  All right, he wasn't dreaming. He'd done a very dumb thing.

  I looked out at him, thinking about excuses.

  Tuck was sitting innocently on his powerful haunches in the grass, that dignified lionlike head pointed skyward. He seemed to be sniffing the air as if to make certain the squabbling cats had departed. To be sure, he wasn't con-cerned about any whopping hole in the screen door.

  My mother shook her head and went outside, quickly going down the short flight of back steps and crossing over to him, maybe to scold him properly. He deserved it.

  I followed her.

  As she approached Tuck, his thick tail began to wag, switching back and forth across the grass like a scythe. She said, “You silly dog, you just broke the door,” leaning over to take his big yellow-haired head into her slender hands and examine his eyes. She bit her lip and frowned.

  Wondering why she'd done that, I had the strangest feeling.

  Mother straightened up, still frowning widely.

  “Why did you do that?” I asked. “Look at him that way?”

  “Well, he acted as though he didn't even see the door.”

  Now it was my time. “Mother,” I scoffed.

  Then I went over and peered down into his eyes. To me, they were the same as they had been for more than three years—liquid deep brown with dark pools in the center. They were so expressive, in laughter or sadness.

  “Have you noticed anything different about Tuck lately?” Mother asked.

  “What do you mean?” He hadn't been sick or any-thing, to my knowledge.

  “Oh, just anything different.”

  Offhand, I said, “No.”

  But there was something, now that I thought about it. I glanced into the acacia trees at the back of our deep lot. Doves often roosted up there, cooing in the day hours, and then they'd drop down to the yard and peck around. Tuck had always chased them, in rousing good fun and fair game, never catching one. They'd fly up and scatter, terrified of the bounding dog with the deep-throated bark. He loved to do it.

  However, a while back, maybe three months earlier, the doves had suddenly turned defiant, I'd noticed. They'd begun to parade brazenly across the backyard. And I'd also noticed that Tuck wasn't going after them anymore. Maybe he was just bored with them, I thought. Or maybe the doves knew something that we didn't. I didn't want to think about that.

  I said, “He's quit chasing the doves.”

  My mother's laugh was hollow. “I don't know what that means.”

  “Neither do I,” I said. Maybe he was just lazy in the heat.

  She sighed and went back to the door and stood there for a moment, staring at it, then shook her head and went on inside.

  Thinking about the crazy thing that had happened in the morning, I took Tuck for his regular afternoon walk that humid day, paying special attention to what he did. That turned out to be absolutely useless because he did the same old dog things he always did—sniffing his way by the telephone poles and fire hydrants when we were going along the sidewalk; more sniffing and run-ning and endless leg lifting in the park, branding his territory.

  However, it did seem to me that he was walking with much more care than I ever remembered. In the past, he'd moved along as though he owned the sidewalk and street and all the greenery in the park. Those muscular legs pounded down from his wide chest and hindquarters with great authority. He walked the way a giant walked, very chesty.

  Yet Luke, my youngest brother, sometimes accused me of inventing weird things i
n my head. So maybe I was just inventing this trouble with Tuck? Maybe he really had been dreaming—dogs do dream—and was chasing cats in this dream, and woke up, and without thinking rammed right through the door. There are good excuses for almost everything, I've found.

  When I returned home in the late afternoon, Mother asked, “You solve the mystery of the doorbreaker? I should make him pay for it.” She was reading on the chaise lounge in the backyard shade, trying to keep cool. She rested the book, studying Tuck, who was slurping water.

  I said I hadn't solved the mystery. “The only thing he did different was to walk right by the Leonards’ old Maltese. It was under their car.”

  “He didn't see it?”

  “I guess not.”

  My mother made one of her distinctive “hmh” sounds, which always indicated she'd think about the subject for a while. Then she picked up her book again.

  A little later she came into the house and summoned me to the kitchen. “I want to try something,” she said. “Bring Tuck in here.”

  He was by the garage door, sprawled out asleep on the concrete, which was in cooling shadows. I whistled for him, and he rose up, stretched lazily and luxuriously, then meandered into the house, probably thinking it was mealtime.

  There was a round oak breakfast set in one corner of the large kitchen, and Mother placed one of the ladder-back chairs about three feet away from the screen door.

  Holding Tuck by the collar, she instructed, “Helen, go outside now.”

  I did so.

  “Okay, make him come to you.”

  That was usually easy. All I had to say was, “Tuck, let's go.” He was always ready to go. Anywhere.

  This time, when I called, though, my handsome thoroughbred dog headed for the back door and ran headlong into the tall chair, spilling it with a clatter.

  It was obvious he did not see it.

  I heard Mother's dismayed voice from the kitchen. “Oh, no.”

  By that time, I was opening the door, and Tuck was standing by the knocked-over chair, staring in my direction, quite confused.

  I said to my mother, “Something must be wrong with his eyes.” I now had to admit it. My stomach was suddenly cold and empty.

  She nodded. “I think so too. I'll make an appointment with Dr. Tobin for Saturday morning. Your father comes home Friday night.”

  All week I worried and kept looking into Tuck's pupils for answers that were not there.

  2

  As a child, I lived at 911 West Cheltenham Drive, in the aging Montclair Park section of Los Angeles, in a large, very comfortable two-story white clapboard house, built around 1920 when there were orange groves not far away and blue skies were really sky-blue.

  Upstairs there were four spacious bedrooms, including mine; two baths, each with claw-footed tubs; and a won-derful attic, in which I spent much time looking at old scrapbooks from my father's South Dakota family. A man from Minnesota had built the house, and there was even a basement, a rarity in Southern California.

  Downstairs was the living room, with a wide brick fire-place; the den, with another fireplace and many bookshelves; the dining room; and the roomy kitchen, which looked out on the backyard. The kitchen had a built-in ironing board and a “cooler” cupboard where the owners kept potatoes and other vegetables back in the 1920s. It was a fine house in which to grow up and have a dog.

  There were manicured lawns front and back, and Mother grew many flowers in the beds that bordered them. A white board fence about four feet high encircled the backyard, and a driveway lay along the entire west side of the house, ending in a two-car garage.

  It was up that driveway that my father's new red MG came, honking twice, on a bright October afternoon in the early 1950s, when I was nine and a half years old. High winds and early fall rain had chased the smog out of the Los Angeles basin, I remember, leaving the city unusually bright and clear. To the east, the Hollywood Hills and Santa Monica Mountains were sharp against the horizon.

  About four-thirty, my father eased to a halt within a few feet of the garage and climbed out, elaborately carrying something light gold in color. Seven weeks old, just weaned from proud Maid Marian, who'd won more than a dozen national show ribbons, the pup was a squirming fat sausage of creamy yellow Labrador.

  Anticipating my joy, my father was elfish and smiling, holding the furry ball as if it were an offering.

  I ran across the yard and scooped the tiny thing from my father's hands as he announced, “All yours, Helen. Not for Stan or Luke, or me, or your mother.” Stan was my oldest brother, an ancient thirteen. Luke was then a troublesome eleven.

  I was almost speechless.

  The pup was making tiny yelping noises, as if anxious to place his feet safely on the ground after the ride from the kennel. He was mostly belly.

  I was stunned.

  Watching me closely, enjoying my surprise, my mother stroked the pup's head and talked about big responsibilities. “Now, you'll have to feed him and bathe him and take him to the vet's.”

  That was so typical of her. She was always one to keep things in order. She was auburn-haired, very pretty, and had a good figure for her age, which was late thirties. She taught school, the elementary grades, in the winter months. My father, bespectacled, balding, and pudgy, was not nearly so orderly at home, even though he was an engineer. And he liked to surprise us all now and then. That day was a “now” for me.

  I guess the advice they freely gave was standard for the occasion: He's all yours, and you better take care of him. That was fine with me.

  I hugged the soft yellow warmth that October after-noon, so surprised that I'd been presented a dog. It wasn't my birthday, or Christmas, of course. My cat, Gray Rachel, had been run over the previous year, and I still grieved for her, but that wasn't the reason Friar Tuck came into my life. I didn't learn the reason until much later. At that moment, I was just content to cuddle the pup and give reverent thanks to my parents, whatever their reason or the occasion.

  Up on the wall of what was my childhood room at 911 West Cheltenham is a large photograph of myself and two big dogs in the thick green grass of our backyard. I'm smiling and kneeling between Tuck and another dog, Lady Daisy, a serene German shepherd. She is also a part of this story, perhaps the most important part.

  We're looking straight into the camera, and that blown-up, grainy photo, easily two feet by two feet, taken by my mother so long ago, holds many memories, some as sharp as yesterday.

  Anyone examining that picture can see I was not very pretty, to say the least. My mouth was too large for my jaw. My nose was puggy and freckled. My grin exposed crooked teeth with wire braces on them. I was wearing glasses, as I do now. Oh, how I hated those glasses and the mean braces. Not helping the above appearance, I was painfully skinny, with knobby knees and sharp elbows. Back then, girls did not wear jeans very often, and there was no way to hide my spindly legs. I was often ashamed of them.

  Roundly cheated by nature, I was understandably shy and sometimes stayed in a shell of my own making. When I came out, I did something that almost drove everyone crazy. I whistled. Oh, how I whistled. I whistled indoors and out until one or another member of the Ogden family would shout, “Will you stop it, Helen?”

  Most of the time, I didn't even realize I was whistling. I'd stop, but then I'd start again, unawares.

  The constant tweeting was a habit, like chewing fingernails, and a psychologist had told my parents something I wasn't supposed to know: I had no self-confidence, and that's why I whistled.

  Did he really think I didn't know I lacked confidence?

  What made it all worse was the fact that both Stan and Luke were handsome and fine athletes, while I was cloddish-looking and about as coordinated as a day-old ostrich.

  Truly, there were moments when I gazed into the mir-ror at my wide mouth and brick-red hair, not that fine auburn stuff my mother had on her head, and wondered where I had come from. There were moments when I wanted to die, like the moment I was ca
rrying Luke's eleventh birthday cake into the dining room, singing the birthday anthem, and stumbled. I went face-first into the icing and candles.

  Only in the movies is that supposed to happen.

  3

  As if describing royalty, my father said, “The pup has papers, Helen. That means his bloodlines are recorded by the kennel association. You can breed him someday, if you'd like. Maybe have champion stock, the same as his mother.”

  As little as he was, he looked like champion stock, all right.

  But my father added slyly, “There's also a possibility that he may be flawed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “See that pinkish tinge on his nose, just at the end. It could go away. Maybe not. If he has pink on his nose when he's older—it's called a Dudley nose—you'll never be able to show him. His nose has to be pure black to compete.”

  I laughed.

  Who cared about a pure black nose? Who cared about a Dudley nose? I wasn't concerned about breeding him or showing him. Just having him was enough.

  Of course, there was no way to see the other terrible flaw that lurked within him.

  Predictably, my mother asked, “What will you name him?”

  Having owned him less than ten minutes, I hadn't thought anything about names. But it was very important that he have the exact right name. A “Rover” or a human name like “Jack” would never do.

  Pulling the kennel papers from his coat pocket, displaying them, my father said, “His sire is named Gold Mack, and his mother is Maid Marian Golden Girl. I've met her, and I saw a picture of Gold Mack. He's a beaut. Very big and husky. Between the two of them, you should have a great dog.”

  There was little doubt about that. “I'll have to think of a good name for him,” I said.

  My mother asked, “Have you ever read Robin Hood? It's in the den.”

  I knew about Robin Hood, of course, and I had leafed through the book looking at the pictures. But already I didn't want my dog to have a robber's name, good robber or bad robber. He should have a noble name of some kind, I believed. Maid Marian certainly had an aristo cratic family ring to it.