Trapped

  “Leghold traps.” I remember Sage saying that.

  Sunita nods. “Leghold traps,” she types. “Bingo,” she says, as another list of topics comes up. “Now we’re on the right track.” She clicks on an article title, and the screen changes.

  It takes a minute for the picture to fill in, but as soon as it does, we both turn away in disgust.

  “Ugh!” Sunita cries. “That’s horrible! Is that what Chico looked like when you found him?”

  At the top of the article there’s a picture of a Labrador retriever who was caught in a trap. The trap must have just been taken off. He’s lying in the grass, and one of his front legs looks normal. The other is all bloody and gross, and the foot is missing.

  Tears spring into my eyes. “Scroll down, scroll down,” I tell Sunita. “I don’t want to look anymore.”

  She scrolls down, and we start to read. “This is unbelievable,” Sunita. comments. “It says here that this kind of trap is already banned in lots of countries and in some states. Why doesn’t the United States just ban the traps completely?”

  “It sounds like that’s what the activists want,” I say, reading ahead. “They’re working on changing the laws. But I guess change is a long way off. Pennsylvania is one of the biggest trapping states.”

  I read some more. According to the article, about ten million animals a year worldwide are trapped for their fur. “Man, that’s a lot!” I say, pointing to the screen.

  “And a lot of them are caught by mistake,” adds Sunita, reading quickly now. “This says that for every target animal, like mink or raccoon or fox, two nontarget animals are caught.”

  “Like Chico,” I say softly. I read along with her. Leghold traps catch lots of dogs and cats, plus squirrels, opossums, and even endangered species. Many of these animals die. I sit back, shaking my head in disgust.

  We go through a few different articles, and I start to feel sick to my stomach. As Dr. Mac said, sometimes trapped animals die of exposure or starvation. Some are even eaten by other animals, since they can’t run away to save themselves. Or they drown if the trap is set underwater. That’s pretty common for beavers. And if an animal doesn’t die before the trapper gets to it, well, he takes care of that in a hurry. Most trappers shoot the animals, but some trappers actually club them to death, or stomp on them! I know, it’s really horrible. Sorry. But it’s true.

  “So that’s why he had a—” Once again, I stop myself just in time. I’ve suddenly realized why the Morrison guy had a gun. He shoots the animals when he finds them in his traps!

  Would he have shot Chico? Or would he have let him go, to deal with his injuries on his own?

  “A what?” Sunita asks. She’s studying my face. “Brenna, did the guy have a gun?” She’s no dummy.

  I nod.

  She gasps. “Did you tell your parents?”

  “Not yet,” I admit.

  I did tell them about seeing the Morrison kid checking his traps (I sort of made it sound like a coincidence that Maggie and I were there) and about turning him in to the game warden, but that was it. “They’ll only worry.”

  Sunita can understand that. Her parents were really freaked out about her when she was working with some feral cats and was bitten by one of them. She had to have rabies shots! “Just stay out of his way, OK?” she cautions.

  “I promise,” I say. Right now, I’d be happy if I never saw the guy again. “But it shouldn’t be hard. He’s probably going to jail.”

  We read some more articles. “Some people think that trapping isn’t always bad,” Sunita points out. “Like, some wildlife managers use traps to relocate foxes or coyotes if they’re killing off protected bird populations.”

  “That’s different,” I say.

  “Right, but they couldn’t do it if trapping was just plain illegal,” Sunita says. “Also, look at this. Other people say that if the traps are padded, they’re more humane.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “How can any trap really be humane? The whole thing is just plain wrong.” I copy down some addresses. “I’m going to write to these organizations for more information,” I say. “Maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

  Later, Sunita and I walk to Dr. Mac’s Place. My head is spinning from everything I’ve learned. We looked at lots of the anti-trapping sites, and even some of the pro-trapping sites. Sunita said that it’s important to understand both sides of the issue. She sounds like my mom.

  When we get to the clinic, I don’t waste any time. I head straight for Chico’s cage.

  It’s empty!

  “Where is he?” I demand.

  Zoe’s there, mopping the floor. “Chico’s not in the recovery room anymore,” she says. “He’s doing much better, so Gran moved him to the boarding kennel.”

  Sure enough, when I go to the boarding kennel and find Chico in one of the regular cages, he’s actually standing up!

  “Wow!” I stare at him, keeping my distance. I don’t want to scare him.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” asks Dr. Mac, coming up behind me. “Dogs adapt so quickly to amputation. It’s kind of like nobody ever told them they were supposed to have four legs.”

  “But how can he balance?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “He just does,” she says. “He figures it out somehow. Once he gets stronger, he’ll be running around in no time.”

  As if he hears her and remembers how weak he is, Chico lies down and heaves a big sigh. I take a step closer, worried—and he growls, baring his teeth. I step back. Why won’t he let me comfort him? I turn to Dr. Mac. “Is he eating yet?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Unfortunately, no. He doesn’t seem to trust any food a person gives him. He’ll have to get over that eventually, but for now I’m giving him I.V. nutrition a couple times a day.”

  “Have you gotten any calls from people missing a dog?” I ask.

  “Not a single one,” she says. “To be honest, Brenna, I think he may have been a stray for a long time before he got caught in that trap. Judging by the condition of his coat and how thin he was, he’s probably been on his own for a while.”

  Poor Chico. I hope Dr. Mac is wrong and that somebody comes to claim him soon. He deserves a good home, after all he’s been through. If he really is a stray, it may not be easy to place him. Who wants a dog who’s so mistrustful of people that he growls every time someone comes near?

  Chapter Seven

  “Something smells good,” I say as I walk into our kitchen. Mom is at the counter, chopping up garlic and onions.

  She turns to smile at me. Her silver earrings gleam as she moves. The kitchen is warm and welcoming. It feels good to be home.

  “I’m making a tofu and veggie stir-fry,” she says.

  “Yum!” I happen to love tofu, even though everyone makes fun of it. Maybe it’s just the way my mom makes it, but I’ve always thought it was delicious.

  Mom turns back to her chopping. “It’s easier to cook one thing for everyone,” she says. “If Sage wants to be a vegan, we can all try that for a while. I looked up some information on how to make sure we’ll get enough protein, and it seems easy enough. There are a lot of good vegan recipes.”

  “What about milk and cheese and yogurt?” I ask.

  “I’m not quite ready to give all that up,” Mom admits. “Plus, it’s important food for Jayvee, since he’s still growing. So we’ll continue to have it in the refrigerator. Sage doesn’t have to eat it if he doesn’t want to.”

  That makes sense. And I’m relieved. I’d miss those things, especially ice cream. I hope Mom will still be stocking our freezer with the occasional pint of Ben and Jerry’s.

  “Honey, would you set the table?” she asks. “By the time you’re done, I’ll be finished chopping the veggies and we can go out and feed the critters.” She takes some tofu out of the fridge and starts to cut it up.

  I’m thinking that it’s Sage’s turn to set the table, but it doesn’t seem worth arguing about. “Sure,” I say, pulling
open a drawer to get napkins.

  When the table’s all ready and the tofu and veggies are chopped, Mom and I head out to the critter barn. It’s quiet out there, and we go about our tasks without talking or making much noise.

  “Sorry I never got you any treats,” I whisper to the raccoon as I dish out some cat food for him and refill his water dish. I feel bad about that. This business with the trapper seems to be taking up all my attention lately.

  The raccoon doesn’t mind, of course. He barely notices me. And that doesn’t bother me in the least. It’s funny how much I mind about Chico growling at me. Why shouldn’t he? He’s in pain. Maybe if I thought of him the same way I thought of our critter barn guests, my feelings wouldn’t get so hurt.

  On our way back to the house, we stop to tell Dad that dinner’s almost ready.

  The shop looks even more chaotic than ever. I think Dad’s really missing the help that Sage used to give him.

  Jayvee runs into the kitchen after we come in. “I’m starving!” he shouts. “When are we eating?”

  “Any minute,” says my mom, tossing the tofu and veggies into the sizzling wok. “Go tell your brother.”

  Dinner starts off quietly enough. Everybody’s hungry, and we pay most of our attention to the food. The stir-fry is yummy. Then, after I’ve started in on my second helping, I start to tell a little about what I’ve learned about leghold traps.

  Mom and Dad are nodding. They must know all this stuff already.

  Sage keeps chiming in with statistics and gory details. He and the other Animals Always people do a lot of research into this type of thing. They try to write at least one letter to the editor every week, and each one is full of facts and figures about the ways humans abuse animals.

  “Ugh,” Jayvee says when I tell about how the beavers drown in their traps. “Do we have to talk about this at dinner?”

  “Why talk about it at all?” Sage asks. “Talk never changes anything. Direct action is the only way.” He’s frowning as he toys with his food.

  “What kind of direct action?” Dad asks, putting down his fork.

  Sage just shrugs. He won’t meet Dad’s eyes.

  “Sage, that group of yours isn’t considering doing anything illegal, is it?” Mom asks. She pushes her plate away, looking worried. “I’ve read about some of the things that the more radical animal rights groups do. Recently they set fire to a factory that makes food for mink farms. That’s dangerous! People could get hurt.”

  “They always make sure there are no people in the building,” Sage says defensively.

  Mom sighs.

  “Why don’t they just let all the minks out of their cages?” Jayvee asks.

  His innocent question makes Sage grin, and I realize how much I’ve missed my brother’s smile.

  “They do!” Sage says. “Isn’t that the coolest? They sneak into mink farms at night, all dressed in black. They open up all the cages and liberate the animals! There are directions on the Internet about how to do it.”

  “Wow, cool...” says Jayvee. He pauses. “What’s ‘liberate’?”

  “It means they set them free,” my dad explains. He’s shaking his head. “And it’s not always the best thing for them. Sometimes they run off and get hit by cars or eaten by other animals.”

  I guess Sage isn’t the only one who’s been doing his research!

  I look at Sage. Our quiet family dinner has suddenly turned into something else. I feel as if I’m at a tennis match, turning my head from side to side as each player hits the ball. Dad, one. Sage, zip.

  “Right,” Sage admits. “So some of them die. But guess what? If they stayed prisoners at the mink farm, all of them would die.” Score one for Sage. “Anyway, usually the people who free them try to catch them and give them good, safe homes.”

  Dad just shakes his head again. “I’m glad that you care about animals, Sage. We brought you up to respect all living things. I just hope you’ll keep in mind that humans fall into that category.”

  I’m not sure what Dad is getting at, but Sage seems to understand. “Uh-huh,” he says shortly. Then he stands up. “I have a meeting to go to,” he announces. He takes his plate to the sink and rinses it off. Then, before we know it, he’s gone.

  “Dessert, anyone?” Mom asks, trying to salvage what’s left of our family dinner. “It’s apple pie.”

  After pie, I help Dad with the dishes and then head up to my room to do some homework. I’ve fallen behind a little, and if I don’t study for tomorrow’s math test, I could be in big trouble.

  When I open my backpack and look things over, I realize that the situation is worse than I thought. I have an English paper due in two days, my social studies group project is supposed to be well under way, and I’m scheduled to give an oral presentation in tomorrow’s health class, on food safety.

  Eek.

  First things first. I’d better get going on that oral presentation. There’s only one problem: I left my health book in my locker at school.

  If Sage were home, I’d ask him if I could use his computer for a while to do some research on the Internet. (The family computer is way too pokey.) Come to think of it, if Sage were home, I’d never have a chance at the computer, since he’s always using it.

  It takes me only a second to decide. He hates me to go into his room without asking, but I don’t really have a choice, do I?

  I go down the hall to Sage’s room and knock softly on the door, just in case he’s still there. “Sage?” I call. No answer. I push the door open.

  His room looks the same as always, which is to say it’s a total pigsty. No, that’s not fair to pigs. They’re actually very smart and clean. Sage’s room is, well, what can I say? I have to practically wade through piles of dirty clothes, books, and woodworking projects in order to get to his desk.

  The computer’s on, so it takes only a few minutes to get onto the Internet. I do some searching, trying to remember Sunita’s techniques. It’s not too hard to find what I’m looking for, and soon I’ve downloaded more information than I’ll ever need about salmonella bacteria counts, hand washing, and how to clean your kitchen counters.

  While the information is printing out, I quickly check my e-mail. Nada. Just a couple of those stupid chain letters everybody loves to forward. Then, bored, I do something I know isn’t quite right. I go to Sage’s list of bookmarks to see what Web sites he’s been visiting.

  And boy, do I get an education!

  These animal rights people are serious. Like that fire my mom talked about, in the feed factory? That was only one of dozens of fires people have set. They’ve also defaced the windows of stores that sell fur, vandalized fast-food places that serve meat, and sent threatening letters to scientists who use animals for experiments.

  Some of the people have been arrested for their activities—including some Animals Always members! They’re known as “political prisoners,” and there’s a list of addresses so you can write to these people in jail.

  There’s a page that shows how to disguise yourself when you’re doing “direct actions,” and a page that tells how to disable video surveillance cameras so that you can’t be filmed while you’re freeing minks or setting fires.

  No wonder Mom and Dad are so worried about Sage. He could be headed for real trouble if he gets too involved with these groups!

  Then, I check one last page. “Directions for Building a Man-Trap,” it’s titled. There are pictures with captions explaining how to construct a trap that will grab a man’s ankle the same way much smaller traps grab an animal’s leg.

  “Oh, no,” I breathe. I think of the way Sage has been talking about “direct action.” Is this what he has in mind for the Morrison guy? It can’t be. I don’t blame Sage for being angry at the trapper who caused Chico’s injuries, but my brother would never hurt somebody just to prove a point.

  Would he?

  Suddenly, I remember the mess that I waded through to get to Sage’s desk. I whirl around in the chair and sta
re at the floor. Woodworking project? Why would Sage be doing woodworking in his room when he can use Dad’s shop and all his tools anytime he wants?

  I fall to my knees and push aside clothing and books, exposing Sage’s project.

  It’s not a woodworking project at all, though there are a few pieces of wood involved. Mostly, it’s made out of metal. And sure enough, it looks just like the trap on the computer screen. The jaws aren’t quite like the ones that hurt Chico so badly. In fact, they’re padded the way “humane” traps are supposed to be. But they’re huge. I wince at the thought of how they would feel clamping down on my ankle.

  I sit there, staring at the jumble of metal and wood and shaking my head. You’ve gone too far, Sage. I hate the thought of what that Morrison kid did to Chico, and I hated the sight of the guy when I saw him. I might even have wished that he were the one in the trap—but still, I don’t think I could do something like that to another person. If it’s wrong to hurt animals, isn’t it wrong to hurt humans?

  I try to collect my thoughts, figure out what to do. Should I tell Mom or Dad? Confront Sage? Call the police?

  None of those seem right. I don’t want to get Sage in trouble—and I don’t want him angry at me, either. Not if this is how he acts when he’s angry!

  Instead, almost without thinking, I reach down and—carefully—unhook one of the huge springs that controls the action of the jaws. A spring that size cannot have been easy to find in the local hardware store. Sage must have ordered it specially, maybe even from a trapping supply store.

  After I remove the spring, I shove the clothes and books back into what I hope is close to their original position. If I’m lucky, Sage won’t notice right away that the spring is missing. That will give me some time to figure out what to do next.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s hard to sleep. I toss and turn and worry about whether Sage will notice the broken trap, whether he’ll be able to fix it, whether I should tell Mom and Dad . . .