Paintings from the Cave (15 page)

And, just like that, I have a dog.

And the dog has me.

E
rik is smiling.

I must have fallen asleep after I brought my dog back to our place—she was curled up next to me on the futon, tucking her back between my butt and knees—because I open my eyes and see Erik standing over us, looking down.

Smiling.

And when I see his face, I realize I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him smile.

“I got a dog, Erik.”

“I see that.”

“I’ve been making money. Sketching. I draw pictures of the dogs at the shelter and Greg pays me for them
and puts them on a website. They help the dogs find a home because Greg says I capture their spirit, and, well, this one, even though she’s got a great spirit and is a wonderful person, I mean dog, isn’t the kind who’s going to find a good home if we don’t take her.”

Erik just looks at us.

“I’ll take care of her and feed her and clean up after her and the floor is linoleum so she won’t ruin anything. And she’s real old and housebroken so she won’t bark or be a nuisance.”

“She’s real nice, Jamie, but I don’t know how we can keep her.”

“We can’t get rid of Annie Oakley.”

“What?”

“That’s what I named her. I read a book about Annie Oakley, she was a trick shooter a long time ago and she, well, I don’t suppose she talked much about the part that happened before, either.”

“Oh.”

“And we can’t send her back to the shelter. Someone already did that, and, well, no one will want her because she’s old and deaf and has seizures, but I don’t mind.”

I wait, nervous and sweating and wondering if he’ll agree to another mouth to feed and more worries. He’s probably worried too that there might be rules about not having pets, and worried about the mess she might make. But this doesn’t seem like the kind of place that
would be real strict, because it’s not fancy. And Greg thought it was okay for me to bring her here. I know I shouldn’t push Erik, but I can’t lose Annie Oakley.

Erik’s Rule #10: If you have to know now, the answer is no; if you can wait a while, we’ll see.

I hope he just says yes right this very second.

Erik studies Annie Oakley for a little while. Then he sighs and shrugs. “This family could use a good woman. Welcome home, Annie Oakley.”

Her tail thumps on the bed like she knows exactly what he means.

Erik flops next to me on the futon. “Shove over and make some room.”

I do and Annie Oakley stretches out, her rump against me and her chin resting on Erik’s arm.

And I know that tonight, at least, no one’s going to have bad dreams or seizures.

F
amily.

Erik called us a family last night when he said we could keep Annie Oakley.

And he said
home
, too.

I’ve never heard Erik say those words.

I lie awake all night. Not like I usually do, wondering where we’re going next or trying to think of anything but the reason Erik or I woke up. Tonight I’m thinking about family and home and art.

I get up off the futon. Annie Oakley wakes up and watches me go to my backpack to get my sketchbook and pencils and take them to the bathroom where I can turn on the light but not wake up Erik. As I shut the door, I see her creep over to sleep with him.

I sit with my back to the tub, my sketchbook on my lap.

Although I just caught a glimpse as she settled herself next to him, I draw Annie Oakley and Erik sleeping, curled up together on the futon.

When I’m done, I look over the finished drawings in my cardboard folder, pulling out the ones that don’t need any more work—the colored one about what came before, Erik, two of Greg, the librarian at his desk, Grandpa watching baseball, Erik and Annie Oakley sleeping, and the best of the dogs from the shelter and the dog run.

When I count them, I’m surprised to see that I have fifteen. The exact number I need. Before I can chicken out, I slip into my clothes, and at the door to the hallway, I snap my fingers for Annie Oakley. She leaps off the futon and pads over to me. I clip the leash onto her collar and close the door behind us silently.

It’s early, six or six-thirty, and we head to the library. I know it’s still closed, but there’s an after-hours drop box where I can leave my portfolio. The entry form says any government building will accept submissions.

I’ve been carrying the form around. I pull it out of my backpack when we get to the library and I sit on the steps filling it out. I feel a zingy thrill when I write down our address. Then I slip the form into the folder with my work and put the whole thing in the drop box.

I can’t possibly win. But in the end I’m submitting
my work because the contest gave me a reason to draw all the things I’ll never be able to talk about.

I know Erik is still worried. He stresses about the money pouch and the expense notebook, and now he has a little calendar, too, in which he counts the days until our six-month sublet is up and we have to find a new place. And Grandpa is never going to get better and remember us.

So things aren’t perfect.

But for today, the sun is coming up and my fifteen finished drawings are in the drop box and Annie Oakley stands next to me, leaning into my leg, and we’re going home to see Erik.

Erik’s Rule #11: Good enough is enough for us.

Gary Paulsen is the distinguished author of many critically acclaimed books for young people, including three Newbery Honor Books:
The Winter Room, Hatchet
, and
Dogsong
. He won the Margaret A. Edwards Award given by the ALA for his lifetime achievement in young adult literature. Among his Random House books are
Flat Broke; Liar, Liar; Masters of Disaster; Woods Runner; Lawn Boy; Lawn Boy Returns; Notes from the Dog; Mudshark; The Legend of Bass Reeves; The Amazing Life of Birds; The Time Hackers; Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day; The Quilt
(a companion to
Alida’s Song
and
The Cookcamp); How Angel Peterson Got His Name; Guts: The True Stories Behind
Hatchet
and the Brian Books; The Beet Fields; Soldier’s Heart; Brian’s Return, Brian’s Winter
, and
Brian’s Hunt
(companions to
Hatchet); Father Water, Mother Woods;
and five books about Francis Tucket’s adventures in the Old West. Gary Paulsen has also published fiction and nonfiction for adults. His wife, Ruth Wright Paulsen, is an artist who has illustrated several of his books. He divides his time between his home in Alaska, his ranch in New Mexico, and his sailboat on the Pacific Ocean. You can visit him on the Web at
GaryPaulsen.com
.

Gary Paulsen is available for select readings and lectures. To inquire about a possible appearance, please contact the Random House Speakers Bureau at
[email protected]
.