Tales from the Field: Mac’s Ultimate Prank by Katie L. Carroll

Central High women’s soccer team: schooling the boys’ team on the field since 2012. Now it’s time to school them off the field.

I mute the music and kill the lights on my mom’s SUV, packed full of my teammates, as we approach our rival school, Valley High. The speedometer hovers below 20 mph. A block away from the school, I park behind a beat-up sedan, also packed full of soccer players.

Malcolm, the captain of the boys’ team (yes, I said boys, not men…because no high school guy is actually a man), leans against his car, his dreadlocks peeking out from under a black winter hat. We’re all dressed in black to blend in with the October night. Megan and I slip out of the SUV to talk strategy with him.

“Mac. Megan,” he whispers in greeting, his breath puffing in the cold air. We’re not close enough to the school to be heard by anyone there, but we’re not taking any chances of talking loudly and disturbing the neighborhood. “You ladies ready for this?”

“We were born ready,” I say before Megan can answer. She’s our captain and the boss on the soccer field, but I’m in charge tonight.

The thing is every year the Central High women’s soccer team has a better record than the boys’ team. And it goes without saying (though I’m going to say it) that we look a helluva lot better out on the field than they do.

But there is one thing the boys’ team is better at than us: they always pull the best Dog Day Eve prank. So this year (my senior—and final—year), I’m determined to one up them by stealing Benji the Bulldog, Valley’s mascot. And I’ve come up with a brilliant plan.

It’s a brilliant because there’s little fear of retaliation. Our mascot is also a dog (a husky), but unlike Valley’s bulldog, our husky isn’t real. The dog is a costume worn by the gym teacher. (It used to be worn by a student until two years ago when there was an unfortunate incident with a bare bottom underneath said costume. Both hilarious and gross!)

From my pocket, I pull out a drawing of the school and a flashlight. I point to the bus drop-off circle. “This is where we park. It’s easy in/easy out. They keep Benji in the janitor’s office until the night janitor takes him home around ten p.m. I’ve got dog treats to keep him quiet.” I add as an afterthought, “For the dog, not the janitor.”

Malcolm stifles a laugh. “How many are going in?”

“Four of us. Me, Megan, you, and whoever you want to take.”

“Jimmy’s my wingman.”

I make a snap decision. “Okay. The four of us will take your car up to the circle. Everyone else can wait here.” My mom will kill me if I get dog hair (or worse) all over her SUV.

Malcolm ducks his head into window and in true clown-car fashion an impossible number of boys file out of the tiny sedan. I tell them they’re not going to fit in my car and they can wait outside.

While Malcolm chats up Addison (who we all call Hunter) in my front seat, I flip my car keys to Denise (my best friend), who is squished into the very back with Sadie and Paloma. “You’re in charge until I get back. No boys allowed inside.”

She ducks low and makes her way to the front. “Got it.”

I let Malcolm drive up to the school (only because it’s a stick and I don’t know how to drive one) and we park at the end of the drop-off circle for a quick getaway.

I’m about to get out, when from the backseat Megan locks my shoulder in a death-grip. “Wait, MacKenzie. You never told me how we’re supposed to get in. It’s after hours, way after hours. All the doors are locked. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner.”

Before she can spiral further into panic (any sense of unpreparedness makes Megan slightly crazy), I pry her hand away. “I’ve got it under control. My cousin’s boyfriend goes to Valley. He spilled a bunch of chemicals in the photo lab and convinced the teacher to leave a window open to air it out.”

Next to Megan, Jimmy lets out a long whistle, clearly impressed by my prank skills. He has no idea how long I’ve been planning this.

“Let’s do this,” I say, and then we’re out of the car and creeping around the school to the photo lab’s, which is in fact cracked open (I barely refrain from shouting with joy that my boyfriend’s cousin has come through for me).

Between the hushed whispers and the squeak of the window being pushed farther open, we’re making way more noise than we should. I make another executive decision.

“Only two of us go in. The other two wait outside and stand watch.” I didn’t want the boys involved at all (so they can’t try and steal all the credit for the prank), but no one on my team could take Benji overnight and Malcolm agreed to do it.

“Me,” Megan says. “I’ll go with Mac.”

“No way,” Malcolm argues. “It should be me. I’m the one housing the dog tonight.”

Before a real argument breaks out and blows up my whole plan, I shush them. “Malcolm comes. Megan and Jimmy wait outside.” Maybe I should have been captain of the team (not really, too much responsibility).

Amazingly we sneak down several hallways to the janitor’s office and find it empty except for Benji. I slip a couple of dog treats to him and open the dog crate. I swear he smiles (though bulldogs always kind of look like they’re grinning) and attempts a leap with his stubby legs. But he’s quiet.

Malcolm grabs him around the middle and we take off in a jog back to the photo lab. That’s when all hell breaks loose! As Malcolm is passing Benji through the open window Jimmy, the dog starts barking, and barking, and barking. Benji squiggles in Jimmy’s arms, and Jimmy swears, loudly.

We sprint toward the car, but by the time we reach the front of the school, lights are turning on inside. Jimmy practically throws the still-barking Benji into the car and we all pile in. Malcolm guns it out of the driveway.

Megan screams, “Slow down! We’ll get caught. We’ve gotta look inconspicuous.”

Malcolm decelerates the car to a normal speed. I stuff the last remaining treats into Benji’s mouth, and he finally calms down.

A squad car rushes past, no lights or sirens (but definitely in a hurry). Malcolm puts his blinker on to turn down the street where we left everyone else, but I direct him to head to the mall. I’ve resigned myself to letting all those boys into my mom’s SUV and text Denise to meet us there. (No way am I staying so close to Valley High with the contraband.)

At the mall, the guys and Benji head off with Malcolm and I start the long process of taking all my teammates home. My hands are still shaking with adrenaline as I take the wheel.

Megan recounts what happened and the atmosphere in the car is giddy with the excitement that we pulled of such a great prank. Swallowing back the lump of nerves in my throat, I join the celebration by blasting loud, brain-cell killing music. 

At home, I crash hard and wake up late. All day I can’t shake the butterflies wrecking havoc on my system. I tell myself that I’m just excited about the final phase of the prank tonight at half-time of the football game.

I pick up Denise and Megan and we head to our school for the football game (the football players never come to our games so we make of point of not attending theirs, but we have a special reason for attending tonight).

We sit with a bunch of our teammates and players from the boys’ team. Megan has forbidden anyone from talking about what we did last night. Those of us who were part of the prank keep shooting glances at each other. The high-fiving and giggling are rampant. Malcolm gives me a nod and heads out of the stands. It's almost time!

The half-time whistle blows and the anticipation in our section of the stands is palpable. Before the cheerleaders can take the field for their annual mid-game exhibition, a tennis ball is thrown at the 50-yard line (I bribed a freshman to do this without knowing why she was doing it). Benji (strategically released by Malcolm from the cover of the trees on the far end of the field), dressed in Central’s red and white colors, trots to the ball.

A cry of fury breaks out in the Valley stands as they realize the dog is their mascot. Our fans whoop and holler with glee. One of Valley’s cheerleading coaches scoops up Benji and stands in the middle of the field as if waiting for instructions on what to do. I think my sides are going to split I’m laughing so hard.

I bask in the triumph of a well-executed prank for one full minute before a heavy hand falls on my shoulder. All those butterflies that have been hanging in my stomach threaten to come out of my mouth.

I look up to find the vice principle staring down at me, her mouth closed in a harsh line of anger. Her other hand is pressed firmly to Megan’s shoulder. Megan sends daggers my way (she might be angrier than the vice principle). The boys’ soccer coach is already escorting Jimmy down the stands.

“You two need to come with me,” the vice principle says.

Best prank of all-time: accomplished. Punishment for my crimes: to be determined (but all signs point to something severe). Maybe I should have left the pranking up to the boys’ team this year.

***

Check out the other Tales From the Field here! 

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, writer, editor, speaker, and soccer player. She began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app THE BEDTIME KNIGHT and a contributor to THE GREAT CT CAPER, a serialized mystery for young readers. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and sons. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com.

Phillip, the Fed-Up Pup by Stuart R. West

                “Humph.” Phillip flumped down onto the buggy, itchy-scratchy grassy ground around his doghouse.  “You know what’s up? I’m a fed-up pup, that’s whassup!”  Phillip flapped a paw at a buzzy bumblebee singing and swinging around his nose and toes.  “Every dog-gone dash day is the same, no game, quite lame,” said Phillip. “I sleep unsoundly in this coldenly doggie hut, while my pinkly, plumply people sleep deeply in a lovely human housey!  I tell ya the totally, terrible truth, I’m fed up!”

                Phillip rolled his bug-bitten rump over a muddy hump with a big fat doggy thump.  “Sure, they take care of me by feeding me crunchity crackers and treaty smackers, but my hairless humans don’t eat the same.  On wickedly warm days filled with hot, sunnish rays, my people slurp cones of cream as cold as ice, tasting twice as nice!  On snowsy-blowsy nights of freezy-breezy rain, they eat soups so hot… the shame!   They rest their rears on things called chairs that are full of softness and angels’ feathers!  They watch an unbelievable box, a display of bravery and tears, policemen and dancing bears and humans selling underwears.  Worst of all…they get to go potty on the wonderfully white, certainly soft, kingly comfortable pleasure potty palace chair!   Me?  I growl barkity-bark-bark at the daily, dependable deliveryman and drop my doggity doody-do on the grass surrounding my houndy home!  No class!”

“ I’m one fed-up pup and I’ve had enough,” hollered Phillip.  “It’s time to get tough, take no guff and hope that things don’t get too unpleasantly rough!”  Phillip stood solidly sound with his back two feet on the ground , his tail waggling wiggily around.  He dashed up the driveway, proudly paraded past the demeaning doggy flap, pushed open the human door (quite a chore!), and stepped onto the kitchen floor.

Father frantically raced down the stairs, staring stupidly at what was willfully waiting for him at the kitchen table.  “Mother!” yelled Father.  “Why is Phillip sitting so pleasantly and peoplely at the proper plate setting for me?”

Mother joined the rowdy ruckousy kitchen commotion calmly.  “Hmm, it appears Phillip feels he’s fully family now, Father,” said Mother with amazingly matronly motions.

“That is correct, Mother,” said Phillip.  “If you don’t mind, if you’d be so kind, I’d love to dine, and try some coffee if that’s fine.”

“But…but…Phillip,” blustered a barely believing Father, “I never, ever, ever knew you could speak in such mannerly and humanly ways!”

“I’ve never had anything to say before now ,” said Phillip as he pawingly pulled the front page of the paper open. “And please, use my dog name from now on: Sir Barks-A-Lot.”

Brother and Sister tumbled down the steepish stairs to see what the loudish hoo-hah hullaballoo was about.  “Phillip!” squealed Brother & Sister.  “You’re sitting, reading and drinking in a very mannerly and humanly way!”

“This is oh-so-totally and truthfully true, my youngish humanly crew,” said Phillip.  “For you see, Brother and Sisteree, I’m a frighteningly fed-up little pup.  I’ve delightfully decided to declare my doggishly days dog-gone done.  I wish to be treated and undefeated in ways most humdingishly humanish.”

“Well, Sir Barks-A-Lot, I can see you’re not so hot to dog trot a lot, so I’ll tell you what’s what and what’s not,” said Father.   “It’s fine that you’re a fed-up pup, but I do believe (here, let me roll up my sleeve), that I would like to achieve being a fed-up Father!”  Father shed his shirt and shucked his shoes, flopped to the floor like a fish with the blues.  “I’m a fed-up Father now and I want to experience delightfully doggishly, luxuriously lazy, hazy doggy days!  Now scratch my tummy and talk to me funny!”

“I do not want to be left out,” said Mother.  “So here me shout, ‘I’m a fed-up Mother, what about you Sister and Brother’?”

“Awesome!” yelled Brother and Sister.  “We’re going to be fed-up Sister and Brother, there can be no other, so why even bother, isn’t that right, Father and Mother?”  Brother junked his jeans, standing in his tidy-whities, making for quite a sighty and said, “It’s doggy nap-time, so good nighty!”

“I’m going outdoors,” said Sister sassily, “and getting on all fours, and bark for hours at passing cars and neighbors next doors!”

“Hold on here one hot-doggedy, dog-gone hair,” hollered Phillip. “We all can’t possibly pretend to play at being fed-up forever!  Who will work and cook goodies and send Brother and Sister to school in their hoodies?”

“You should’ve thoroughly thought this through, Sir Barks-A-Lot,” murmured Mother.  “Now we have a household of hairless hounds with no helpful humans.  In order to feed, you will indeed need to learn to read at school, obey the golden rule and get a job…If that’s cool.”

“Work?  School??” screamed Phillip.  “I’m no fool, but a drooly, wooly puppy pal who’s just fed up, that’s all.  You can’t possibly pretend to ponder this pup’s wonder at screamingly scary school and weirdly wicked work!”

Father rantingly ran in, his tongue wagging wildly, his manner oddly mildly, and plopped puppy-like at Phillip’s furry feet.  “Bounce the bouncy blue ball, Sir Barks-A-Lot, and we’ll play all day until we’re hot!”

“No pants, no shoes and no shirt!” barked Brother.  “I just did doo-doo in the outdoor doggy dirt!  I must run, for there’s much more fun in the sun that I’ve only just begun!”

Father was chasing balls and scratching his bottom up against walls.  Mother napped nicely and neatly with no shoes on her feeties.  Daughter hollered houndishly at neighbors and cars and voices from afars.  Brother pottied and partied in the puppy playhouse and yard! 

And they want me to go to school and work, thought Phillip, this is too hard!

“Enough!” yelled Phillip.  “Enough funny stuff, it’s just too tough to take, it’s no piece of cake!  Maybe I was too quick, to say I’m fed-up and sick.  I do not want to go to school and work, I do not want to eat with a fork.  I want to go back to being Phillip the dog and be as lazy dazy as a log!”

Father and Brother put on their clothes, Daughter stood up on her back toes, and Mother merrily said, “I suppose…I suppose, if we chose, we could go back to the lives we know.  Let’s get going, gang, and be cool, it’s time for us to leave for work and school!”

Phillp’s family fled out the door, leaving Phillip panting on the floor.  “Well,” pondered Phillip as he walked out the doggy door, “Life is swell, all is well, the neighbor’s did not put Brother or Sister in jail.”  Phillip plopped oh-so-puppy-like onto the green grass in front of his cozy, comfy, cutesy & delightful doggy-house.  “I am houndishly happy and puppishly pleased to go back to my lovely life as a well-fed pup and not a fed-up pup!”

From that day on and once a week, Phillip’s furless family (so to speak), fed Phillip a cone with cream as cold as ice and twice as nice.

* * * 

 Here I am, talking about myself, pretending not to. Ah,

I'm probably not fooling anyone, but play along anyway, 'kay? Just imagine Morgan Freeman narrating and we'll all get through this just fine.

For more of Stuart R. West's adult and young adult suspense tales filled with light heart and dark humor, check out his Amazon page.

And please do check out Stuart's blog featuring weekly rants, failed stand-up comedy routines and incisive author interviews: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley

Brand spankin' new and creeptacular trailer for Ghosts of Gannaway: http://bit.ly/1Icbj0N

Tales from the Field: Paloma’s Night Out by Katie L. Carroll

Two rival schools plus two dog mascots equals one crazy prank night.

“Paloma!” My name echoes off the lockers and down the nearly empty hallway. My teammate Sadie catches up to me and hooks her arm into mine. “You in for Dog Day Eve?”

“Huh?” I say. English may be my second language, but I’m pretty sure Sadie isn’t speaking it right now, or maybe she’s referring to some American holiday I don’t know about.

“Dog Day Eve,” she repeats, not making any more sense than the first time she said it. “The night before the football game against Valley High.”

“We don’t have a game tomorrow.” Moving to a new country the summer before sophomore year has left my social calendar very light, so I memorized the game and practice schedules after I made the varsity team at Central High School. We’ve already played our rivals, Valley High, and aren’t scheduled to play them again.

“Not futbol,” she corrects me, “American football.”

I suppose I’ll never get used to calling the sport I play soccer and a sport in which the foot is hardly used football.

“Yes, of course, football.” I’m careful to adjust my pronunciation of the last word. “Why does that involve a dog?” The term “pigskin” gave me some confusion the first time I watched a football game until someone told me it referred to the ball, so perhaps there is some kind of dog term in the game as well.

She giggles and arm-in-arm pulls me down the hallway toward her locker.

“It doesn’t. Well, it might this year.” A mischievous grin lights up her face as she looks sideways at me. “The day of the Central/Valley game is called Dog Day. You know, because we’re the huskies and they’re the bulldogs,” she explains because clearly I don’t know. “It’s a tradition the night before the big football game to pull a prank on Valley, and they always pull one on us.”

We stop at her locker and she quickly spins the dial and opens it. School has been out for hours, but after practice I had to come back to my locker for a book. I guess Sadie forgot something, too.

“So this year Megan and Malcolm,” she looks over at me and adds, “he’s the captain of the guys’ team, the soccer team, not football.” I’m from Spain, not stupid, but given my earlier confusion, I forgive her for over-explaining in this case. “Anyway, they decided we’re going to pull the best prank ever on Valley High.”

My eyes widen. “What are you going to do?” That doesn't sound anything like what my friends and I would do for fun back home.

For a moment, I’m lost in a memory from about a month before we moved. I was riding the metro with my friends to the stadium to watch FC Barcelona play. We were munching on strawberry-flavored candy and laughing—I remember lots of laughing, but not much about the match.

“We,” Sadie interrupts my thoughts. Her locker is shut and a black jacket is draped across her arm. “You’re coming, right?”

“I don’t know.” I’m eager for a night out that doesn’t involve a long dinner with my parents. I don’t think my father will give me a ride anywhere tonight, and my mother doesn’t have a license—she didn’t need one when we lived in Barcelona.

“Mac’s got room in her car. We’ll come and get you. Be ready by seven.”

Pranking sounds fun but possibly dangerous, and certainly not an activity my father would approve of. “I’m not sure my parents will let me.”

“Tell them it’s a team thing. Trust me, this is going to be epic. You don’t want to miss it.” I nod hesitantly. She checks her phone. “I gotta run.” Heading down the hallway, she yells over her shoulder, “Make sure to wear black!”

A couple of hours later, I’m in the living room with my parents, all of us anxiously awaiting the arrival of my teammates. My mom sits on the edge of the couch, and my dad stands at the big front window, staring out into the night.

I’m clad in black jeans and my FC Barcelona jersey. To avoid raising my parents’ suspicions, I keep my black hooded sweatshirt on my lap, ready to be zipped over the bright shirt once I leave. On my feet are my indoor soccer shoes, which I hate to wear outside, but they’re the only black shoes I own besides my boots—cleats here in America.

My mother glances at the clock. “They’re late.” It’s 7:05 p.m., but being even a minute late is rude according to her.

“They’ll be here.” I hope.

It’s silent except for the tick-tock of the antique clock my mom brought on her carry-on, not trusting anyone else to transport the family heirloom and relic from pre World War II. The honk of a horn sounds outside.

I hop out of my seat and stand beside my dad to look out the window. A black SUV sits at the curb, and I recognize it as Mac’s mom’s car. “That’s them,” I say to him.

“They’re not coming to the door,” he says like he can’t believe it. “I don’t like this, Paloma.”

Of all my friends back in Spain, I had the strictest parents, but they’ve lightened up slightly since moving me across the world.

“They don’t do that here. Please,” I beg, “just let me go. They’re my teammates. You know them.”

He looks to my mother, who waves her hand and says, “Let her go. I suppose we’ll have to get used to this.”

“You may go,” he relents. “But don’t forget your toque de queda.”

“I won’t forget my curfew,” I say. “Ten o’ clock.”

I run out the front door before he changes his mind. The SUV is packed. Mac, of course, is driving, and Addison Hunter, who has a broken ankle, is in the front passenger seat. Megan and our goalie Olivia take up the middle seats. I squeeze into the very back with Sadie and Denise, a fellow defender for the team.

My parents’ stern figures are silhouetted in the window as Mac squeals away from the house. I swallow and quickly buckle my seatbelt. She turns up the music, a night-club type base rumbling through the car.

“Where are we going?” I yell to Sadie.

She bounces her head to the music, a crazy grin on her face. “Valley High!” She pumps a fist in the air.

“Why?” I ask.

Megan turns in her seat. “We’re kidnapping Benji the Bulldog!”

Mac drives onto the entrance ramp and guns it up to the highway. Back pressed against the leather seat, a chill of excitement shoots through me. Like Sadie said, Dog Day Eve is going to be epic!

***

Don't miss all of Central High women's Tales From the Field here! 

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, writer, editor, and soccer player. She began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app THE BEDTIME KNIGHT and a contributor to THE GREAT CT CAPER, a serialized mystery for young readers. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and sons. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com.

The Dog Who Couldn't Wag His Tail

Dog days bring more than summer heat...

I awoke to a cold, dreary, rainy Sunday morning, one of those November days when you want to remain tucked in bed. To stave the chill, I grabbed a steaming cup of coffee and then glanced out my window. He stood in the icy rain, watching me. Whose dog is that? I turned away from the window, wanting nothing to do with another four-legged creature, and proceeded to eat my breakfast.

Hard as I fought it, my eyes kept drifting toward this most unwelcome hungry, wet intruder. The animal’s intense gaze struck me first, and then his lameness. He held his left leg up, clearly unable to walk on it. With a softened heart, I opened the backdoor, but the dog crept deeper into the woods, his tail, broken and hanging between his legs. Pitiful, absolutely pitiful.

By the time we returned from church, I had forgotten about the stray dog. Later I wandered outside where I found him, standing away from the house, watching me from his perch. He held his lame leg off the ground. His ears flattened against his head.

That evening I said to my husband, “Did you see that German-shepherd looking dog in the woods this morning?”

“Don’t even think about it. And anyway I believe he belongs to the neighbors around the corner.”

I sighed, relieved. But the memory of that dog, the yearning in his eyes haunted me.   

  

Days passed. The dog didn’t go away. After I fed my resident canines, he sneaked up to the house and devoured whatever food was left. At first I discouraged this behavior, but when I saw his ribs, I allowed him to scavenge. My heart ached for the miserable life this poor animal led. No way this dog belonged to our neighbors. He clearly belonged to no one.

During the first week, Wolf, as I now called him, hung out in our woods, watched us, and waited for our dogs to finish eating. By the next week, Wolf had his own personal food dish, purchased at Pet Smart with him in mind.

Wolf still refused to come near us. He continued to hang out in the woods while I inched his dish closer and closer to the house. The other dogs played with Wolf. He trusted the dog world, whereas he remained steadfastly fearful of the people world.

As weeks multiplied into months and warm summer days came upon us, Wolf fattened up. But, ticks covered his body. He stood on his lame leg, but his fur was matted and rough.

One night during dinner, Wolf sat on his broken tail at the edge of the woods. I said, “Don’t you think it must be the worst thing in the world for a dog not to be able to wag his tail. It’d be like not being able to laugh.”

“I doubt that dog has had too much to laugh about,” my husband said between bites.   

More months passed. At a safe distance, Wolf watched us pet and play with the other dogs. With his eyes fixed on us, he never moved from his perch. Each night we gave the other dogs Milkbone treats. Not being able to stand seeing the glow of Wolf’s eyes, alone in the dark, I approached him with a treat, but he moved away, tail between his legs, ears flat. I tossed the tasty morsel in his direction. He stopped, sniffed the bone, and gobbled it down.

In the spring my cousins came to visit. Being animal lovers, they talked and played with our dogs. My cousin, Frank, cajoled Wolf to come to him. But Wolf kept his distance and merely watched the strangers. Before Frank left, he said, “That dog will be the most lovable of your dogs one day.”  I laughed, completely rejecting Frank’s prediction. What did he know?  He hadn’t been dealing with Wolf for over a year. I had resigned myself to Wolf’s self-imposed distance. At least now he had food every day.

After the seasons changed again from summer to winter and back to summer, I no longer tossed the Milkbone treat to Wolf. He took the bone from my hand held at arm’s length. By now Wolf ate with the other dogs and didn’t creep into the woods whenever the door to the house opened. But he still watched us warily and never let us approach him.

On a hot, humid day in August while I held the Milkbone treat toward Wolf, his tongue touched my hand. Oh, my God! He licked me. Surely he didn’t mean it. The next day Wolf did it again. Bubbling with excitement, I flew in the house to report what Wolf had done.

The following day while Wolf ate, I approached him, stopped, and stood. My heart thundered, my hand trembled. I reached out and, for the first time in over two years, stroked the top of Wolf’s head. He lowered his body, but he didn’t jerk away. His fur felt course, not smooth like the other dogs. His huge brown eyes studied me with a mixture of resignation and fear, but his broken tail lifted slightly.

That warm summer I began petting Wolf regularly. When he lowered his head, as if he thought I might strike him, I raised his chin. The fear in his eyes transformed to trust and love with each stroke. But best of all, he lifted his broken tail as high as he could, and he began wagging it. For the first time since that cold November day, Wolf wagged his tail and lifted his ears. Tears of joy filled my eyes.

Today, Wolf has no ticks. He’s a well-fed, neutered animal with a shiny black coat. Unfortunately his former life left wounds. His limp comes and goes apparently from an old injury. But that doesn’t stop him from running to greet us every night with his broken tail held as high as he can raise it and wagging with such force that his entire backend wiggles. Indeed, he has become the most affectionate canine in our pack.

The dog days of August for some mean days that are so full of heat and humidity the dogs go crazy, howling from the burning temperatures. In Georgia we say, It’s too hot to work. For me, however, dog days in August mean something totally different.

It was during those "dog days" that Wolf finally lifted his head and wagged his tail.

MuseItUp publishing will release the print version of The Clock Strikes Midnight this month, August 2015.