Saving Winslow

  “Yep, he’s done okay. Never would have guessed it. He’s probably ready.”

  “For what?” Louie asked.

  Louie’s father said, “Pete? Hold on a minute.”

  The two men walked over to Uncle Pete’s truck, talking in low tones.

  “What’s he talking about?” Nora asked. “Wins-low’s ready for what?”

  “A different kind of food, probably,” Louie said. “Or a vet checkup.”

  At that moment a single shaft of sunlight pierced the fog and shone on Winslow’s head.

  “That’s an angel at work,” Nora said.

  “What?”

  “Everybody knows that.”

  Uncle Pete waved as he pulled out of the driveway.

  From next door, Mack called out the window. “How’s Winslow?”

  “Good,” Louie said. “You coming over?”

  “Soon as Claudine gets here.”

  “My sister?” Nora said. “That Claudine?”

  “That’s the only Claudine I know.”

  “So, Mack,” Louie said, “you two are speaking again?”

  “Yep. Speaking and . . . smooching.”

  Nora said, “Ick!”

  Winslow’s reaction was harder to distinguish: Eeee-urp, eeee-urp.

  On the other side of Louie’s house Mrs. Tooley called out, “Shut that donkey up! Shut up!”

  Louie’s mother opened the back door. “Was that Mrs. Tooley yelling about Winslow?”

  “Yep.”

  “Winslow annoying her again?”

  “Yep.”

  The baby cried and Winslow brayed.

  “Shut up!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Tooley,” Louie called.

  “I’m trying to get this baby to sleep!”

  “Sorry.” And then, under his breath, so that Mrs. Tooley could not hear him, he said, “Sometimes your crying baby wakes me up.”

  Louie’s father joined them in the pen. “We need to talk,” he said.

  Nora said, “Uh-oh. Gotta go.”

  “You can stay,” Louie’s mother said. “It’s okay.”

  “No, I don’t like bad news.”

  “Who says it’s bad news?” Louie asked.

  34

  I knew it!

  Winslow nudged Louie’s hand, flapping his lips over it, slobbering, reaching for a carrot.

  The way Louie’s father was leaning against the side of the garage reminded Louie of Gus, the way he used to casually lean against things: walls, doors, fences. For a moment, Louie was cheered, thinking of Gus like that, but in the next instant, he missed his brother more than ever.

  His parents looked worried.

  “It’s Winslow,” his mother said. “We’ve had a long talk with Uncle Pete, and he agrees that Winslow needs to go.”

  “I knew it,” Nora whispered to Louie. “I knew it was bad news.”

  Louie clutched Winslow to him. “Go? Away? Away from us?”

  Louie’s father rubbed his hand along Winslow’s side. “We’ve talked about this before, Louie. We’re not allowed to keep farm animals this close to town.”

  “But Uncle Pete has farm animals close to town.”

  “Not this close, and that area is zoned as farm land. Besides, Uncle Pete says donkeys need to be with other animals, not alone.”

  “He’s not alone,” Louie said. “He has me. Us.”

  Nora was holding on to Winslow’s tail.

  Louie’s mother said, “He could go back to Uncle Pete’s.”

  Both Louie and Nora pounced at once: “No!”

  “But why not?”

  Nora crossed her arms defiantly. “Tell them, Louie. Tell them why not.”

  Louie also crossed his arms. “Because he needs to be here. We need to protect him.”

  Mack came around the side of the house, hand in hand with Claudine.

  “Hi, everybody, what’s up?” Mack was swinging Claudine’s hand back and forth, but he stopped when he saw the expressions on Louie’s and Nora’s faces. “What’s the matter?”

  Claudine placed her free hand against her lips. “Oh, no, is something wrong?”

  “Yes, something is wrong!” Nora said. “You get attached to something and it always gets taken away! I knew it!”

  35

  Do you miss us?

  That night, Louie lay in Gus’s bed, under the quilt that smelled like his brother. He wanted Gus to come home. He wanted to ask him things.

  Are you afraid?

  Are you hungry?

  Are you cold?

  Are you safe?

  Do you miss us?

  He wanted to tell Gus about Winslow, about how he loved Winslow with all his heart. He wanted to tell him that Winslow understood things and that Winslow loved him back and that he was funny and goofy and occasionally loud, and Louie could not imagine life without Winslow.

  Before Gus left for the army, Louie had not been able to imagine life without Gus, and then one day he was gone, leaving behind big empty spaces.

  He wondered about what Nora had said: You get attached to something and it always gets taken away!

  Something else was bothering him, too. Who did Winslow belong to? To Louie? Or to Uncle Pete?

  36

  He’s not a dog

  The warmer weather brought out more walkers and joggers. If Winslow was in sight, they would stop and gaze at the donkey.

  “Awww.”

  “It’s a—a—donkey!”

  “Cutest thing ever!”

  Winslow responded by braying, a variety of loud, ridiculous, squawking, honking, shrieking sounds, and then Mrs. Tooley would call out, “Shut up!” which would only make Winslow bray louder and more insistently.

  One day, when Louie and his father were in the yard, an animal control officer arrived. The officer did not get out of his car. Instead, he lowered the window. He did not smile.

  “Is it true you have a donkey on the premises? Is that it out back? Complaints have been made. This neighborhood is not zoned for farm animals.”

  The officer handed Louie’s father a pamphlet outlining animal control regulations and a notice to remove the animal within seven days.

  “Don’t you even want to see Winslow?” Louie asked.

  “Winslow?”

  “The donkey. He’s very friendly.”

  “I can see him from here.”

  Urr-onk-eeee-awe!

  “I can hear him, too.”

  “He’s not even as big as some dogs.”

  “But he’s not a dog.”

  Louie’s father said, “We’re working on it.”

  The officer interrupted. “You need to remove the animal. Within seven days. Is that clear?”

  He did not wait for an answer.

  37

  Can he do that?

  Louie erupted.

  “What? Can he do that? Can he order us to get rid of Winslow?” Louie kicked at the driveway. “Who makes those rules? What is the matter with people? Couldn’t he at least have looked at Winslow? Wouldn’t he have realized that he is not a nuisance?”

  As if in protest, the baby next door cried and Winslow answered: Eeee-urrpa-awe.

  Mrs. Tooley opened her back door and called out, “Shut that donkey up!”

  “Shut your baby up!”

  Louie’s father put a hand on Louie’s shoulder. “Now, now—”

  “I don’t care! That screaming baby is a nuisance! Let’s get rid of it!”

  “Louie—”

  “Stupid people. I hate people!”

  “Louie—”

  38

  You have a donkey?

  Later that same day, another car pulled up in front of Louie’s house. A woman in a khaki-colored uniform stepped out and then reached back inside for a clipboard. Louie froze. Was this about Gus?

  She was as thin a person as Louie had ever seen, so thin you could see the bones of her hollowed face. You could see all the tendons in her neck as she stretched it forward, eyeing the house and Louie.
>
  As she approached, Louie saw the badge on the pocket of her shirt. It read BOARD OF HEALTH. Beneath that was a small photo of the skeletal woman’s face and a name: Dolores.

  “You live here?” she asked. Her voice was crackly, as if it might disintegrate at any moment.

  “Yes.”

  “Your parents home?”

  “Yes.”

  Dolores checked her clipboard. “You have a donkey?”

  “Yes.”

  Dolores tapped her clipboard with a pen and shook her head. “Can’t have donkeys here.”

  “It’s only a little one. No bigger than a dog.”

  From the backyard, sensing the stranger, Winslow let out a loud, croaking, honking eeee-urrrr-awe, eeeee-urrrr-awe.

  “Oh, my. That sounds like a donkey, all right.” Dolores started down the driveway toward Winslow’s pen as he continued to bray loudly and obnoxiously. “Can’t have donkeys here,” Dolores repeated. “Health hazard.”

  “But he’s very healthy,” Louie said. “Want to pet him?”

  “Oh no. No, I do not. Health hazard.” Her dark eyes were like tiny marbles set back in her eye sockets. “Ticks. Fleas. Fungi. Not to mention the bacteria in the feces.”

  It was difficult to hear over Winslow’s loud protests.

  “In the what?” Louie asked.

  “The feces. The—the—poo. What is your procedure for dealing with the feces?”

  Eeee-urrrpa-honka-awe! Winslow did not like this stranger. His mouth was right up against the fence, yelling at her.

  From next door came the sound of the crying baby and the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Tooley: “Shut that thing up! Shut it up now!”

  “Ah,” Dolores said. “Complaints. I need to speak to your parents.” She turned to the house and knocked on the back door.

  Louie stayed outside as she spoke with his parents. Maybe she was only doing her job, he thought, but she didn’t even seem to notice how cute Winslow was. She didn’t know that he had struggled to survive, nor that he could be gentle and loving. She didn’t notice that he had no ticks or fleas or fungi. She didn’t care.

  Louie hoped he would never have a job like hers, but if he ever did—if he was forced, say, to have a job like that—he would look the animal in the eye and he would kneel beside it and he would listen to the boy or the girl who was with the animal and he would never be cold or cruel or dismissive of the boy or girl or animal.

  39

  Follow me

  Louie had never been to Nora’s house. He knew what street she lived on, and that it was a short one, but he did not know which house was hers. Winslow, wearing a new halter, was at his side. Louie walked the length of her street, hoping that maybe she would be outside, and then turned and walked back down the other side, kicking at pebbles along the way.

  “Stupid animal control officer! Stupid Board of Health! Stupid regulations!”

  He sensed that Winslow, at his side, sympathized.

  “Stupid Mrs. Tooley! Stupid crying baby!”

  “Hey—Louie!”

  It was Nora, standing at the door of a small white house. She came down the walk, pulling on her jacket. “This way,” she said, motioning to a path across an empty lot.

  Nora paused to stroke Winslow’s head and to let him slobber on her sleeve, and then she led the way through the lot and out onto a narrow dirt road. “It’s a shortcut. Been here before?”

  Louie was disoriented. “No, I don’t think so. Where does it end up?”

  “Follow me. You’ll see.”

  There were not many homes along the dirt road. Most were small and old, some were trailers, and some abandoned.

  “You’ve never been back here?” Nora asked.

  “I don’t think so—maybe a long time ago—I don’t know. Where does it end up?”

  “The dump.”

  “Oh. And then the main road is on the other side?”

  “Yes.”

  They were not far along when Winslow stopped, alert, and brayed loudly. A dog chained to a tree in one of the yards barked ferociously in return. Winslow strained at the halter and continued to bray, unleashing a furious diatribe of urps and arps and onka-onkas.

  A man came out of the house and smacked the dog with a newspaper. “Get that donkey out of here!” he yelled. “Go on, get a move on.”

  “Sorry,” Louie said. “I never heard him like this.”

  The man shouted, “Donkeys and dogs don’t get along!”

  Louie and Nora managed to steer Winslow away and down the road.

  “Wow,” Nora said. “That was ugly.”

  “Scared me a little,” Louie admitted, “but I think Winslow was trying to protect us. Definitely not going by that place again!”

  They decided to carry on to the dump and then return by the main road, but when they reached the road, Louie suggested they continue on to Uncle Pete’s farm.

  Nora put her hands to her chin. “I don’t know. How far is it?”

  “Not real close, but not too far.”

  “That’s not real helpful, Louie.”

  “Come on, you’ll like it.”

  “I might not. I don’t guarantee I’ll like it.”

  “But you might.”

  40

  Are they going to make it?

  A long, wide dirt driveway led up to Uncle Pete’s clapboard farmhouse. Louie steered Nora and Winslow around the side, toward the red barn in the back. Winslow’s ears perked up, swiveling this way and that, taking in the sounds of the cows and the pigs and the sheep and the chickens, a lively barn song of moos and oinks and baas and cackles.

  Winslow pranced and leaped, eager to investigate.

  Nora’s hands were pressed to her cheeks. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  Uncle Pete waved to them from a tractor. “Hey, there! Go on, wander around. Check out the newborn lambs and calf! I’ll be back soon,” and he rumbled off on the tractor into an adjacent field.

  In a smaller pen, separated from the rest of the sheep, was a ewe and her twin lambs, so tiny and scrawny, with short, sparse white hair revealing pink skin beneath. One lamb was standing and stumbling about, and the other was curled against its mother.

  “That looks so much like Winslow when you got him,” Nora said.

  “Was Winslow really that little and that scraggly?”

  “He was! Remember?”

  Winslow pressed his nose against the wire pen and made the softest sound, a little like the please he had first uttered on the day that Louie’s father had brought him home.

  The ewe lifted her head, acknowledging Winslow, and answered him with a single baa before she bent her head to her newborn. The other newborn stumbled this way and that until it collapsed against its mother, joining its twin.

  “Are they going to make it?” Nora asked. “I hope they’re going to make it. But they seem so frail, don’t they?”

  “That’s how they all are at first,” Louie said, surprising himself with his own confidence. He had seen dozens of newborn lambs in the past, and he had often felt as Nora did now. Will they make it? They seem so frail.

  But they had all made it, all except one or two, and Winslow had made it, and he, Louie, had made it.

  41

  Easy, boy, easy

  Nora clapped her hands to her mouth each time she saw a new animal, as if she were trying to keep something inside from escaping. Louie watched her take it all in: the lambs; the tottering calf with its big head and curly fur; the pink squealing piglets. He had never seen Nora so animated.

  Winslow pushed his muzzle through fence openings, introducing himself. The newborn calf and Winslow stood nose-to-nose, smelling each other, until the calf’s mother mooed loudly and shoved Winslow’s nose back through the fence, scolding him for getting too close to her baby.

  The chickens fluttered and squawked and were not happy to see this new donkey creature near their shed, but they put on a showy display for Nora as she knelt near t
hem. They strutted this way and that, clucking in quick bursts.

  Louie had the odd feeling that something was missing, but he didn’t know what that might be. He glanced around, trying to identify the missing piece.

  They returned to the sheep pens and were watching the lambs still curled against their mother when the tractor returned to the barn and Uncle Pete called out to them.

  Winslow’s ears swiveled this way and that. He brayed loudly. From around the side of the house, a scruffy brown dog ambled lazily in their direction.

  “Easy, boy, easy,” Uncle Pete said to Winslow. “Just my lazy old scaredy-cat watchdog, who is slow in realizing that visitors have approached. Check that tail wagging. Wouldn’t frighten off a toad.”

  “We heard that donkeys and dogs don’t get along,” Louie said.

  “Well, often that’s the case, but this here old thing doesn’t know he is a dog, and he doesn’t seem to know that Winslow is a donkey either.”

  And then Louie knew what was missing. There had always been a donkey at the farm, a touchy, protective, and stubborn donkey. Uncle Pete had called it his LGD, and it was Gus who had said that LGD stood for Little Gray Donkey. That LGD was Winslow’s mother.

  42

  Sorry!

  The next day began well enough, with the sun shining in the windows, and Louie pulling on one of Gus’s old jackets to wear to school, and his parents getting ready for work, and Winslow prancing around his pen and sniffing the air for spring scents. A day can begin so well.

  But . . .

  Mrs. Tooley came outside to scold Louie and his parents and Winslow, all of them, for “all that terrible noise, day and night!”

  “But he doesn’t usually bray at night,” Louie tried. “Only occasionally.”

  “It’s too much, I tell you, too much! I’m exhausted! I’m going crazy! Did that health person come? Did she tell you that animal can’t stay here? Did the animal person come? Did he tell you the regulations?”