Hooray! Dale finally called Marty to say he was finished repairing the Apollo’s engine, and declared the operation to be a success. The patient not only survived, but was better than ever! “Hear that?” he yelled into the phone, over the sound of a revving motor. Marty was so excited, he made Mike take him all the way into San Rafael on Saturday to drive his truck home for the first time in about 6 weeks. Dale insisted on going through a checklist of everything he did. Marty only half-listened to his advice about how to break in the repaired motor, while in his mind he was blasting off in the Apollo again! Then Dale presented him with the bill, and it was a big one, but he paid him in cash because he’d earned it. Driving his truck away from the shop with his spirit soaring at 3,000 rpm, Marty exulted like he’d just taken the on-ramp to the freeway of love!
The next day when he drove to school, Apollo turned a few heads as it rumbled down Fern Lane to find a parking space. Proper arrival was always a delicate affair of timing. Getting there early meant he’d score a good spot, but there was hardly anyone to witness his entrance. Arrive too late, and there would be no parking spots at all, and he’d have to walk too far. Marty naturally liked to hang out by his truck during breaks, and picnic on the tailgate at lunch, so he usually arrived early. His romantic strategy was simple: stay close to his shiny truck, and wait for some chrome-stricken girl to faint in his arms. So far, it wasn’t working. It was easier to play hard to get when someone actually wanted you… otherwise, you just looked stupid sitting there, waiting for nobody at all.
Marty got tired of looking stupid, and wandered back to the bleachers. Along the short walkway next to the field, three different guys asked if he wanted to buy some weed. “No thanks man, I’m cool,” he waved in a friendly way, wondering if he should sell a few joints again. That was always a good way to earn cash money and meet people, but an older guy he knew was busted recently, and sent off to prison. Besides, he’d learned that friendships made with weed usually went up in smoke. At the bleachers, Marty teased Bart about the new down vest his mommy made him wear because of his asthma, but mostly he was checking out the pretty girls. Most of them were smoking cigarettes or putting on makeup, while chatting aimlessly about the myriad of minor details that fascinated the female mind. Could any of them be The One, he wondered? At least they didn’t primp and preen as vainly as the girls at the canteen. Every time Marty went there to get some munchies, he had to run a gauntlet of gossipy, airhead cheerleader types who frowned disapprovingly at him from beneath blow-dried bangs, as if he was a greasy smudge on their compact mirror. Occasionally, a random girl would smile candidly at Marty just because she was nice, and then she’d realize he was smiling back, and had to look away quickly so as not to encourage him. That always deflated him more than anything else: to be seen, evaluated, and dismissed in three seconds or less. He was desperately seeking that ‘special someone’ who appreciated him; with whom he could discuss his deepest thoughts, and confide his fondest dreams.
There were some intelligent girls in English class, and Marty longed to write beautiful poems and prose to impress them. The teacher, Mr. Monahan, was a sly and witty character with a crooked grin, wavy gray-brown hair, and black horn rimmed glasses. He often quoted Monty Python and Voltaire from behind his tweedy mustache, and got extremely worked up about literature. The first poem Marty turned in, he called him up to his desk and demanded, “What is this? You can do way better than this greeting card stuff, man! I’ve seen your work in the paper!” The teacher’s sharp eyes glittered with sincere encouragement, and he smiled knowingly. “Besides, nobody can properly write about love until they’ve had their heart broken a few times.” He handed Marty a paperback of assorted poems by John Donne. “And as the broken pieces show, a hundred lesser faces, so…” he paraphrased mysteriously, arching one eyebrow with a dramatic flair. Marty played it cool, but read the book all the way through in one night. Like most great books, he savored the pages several times, wrestling with the archaic English to find the deeper meaning between the lines that transcended language.
The art room was the ultimate comfort zone for Marty. Actually it was becoming more like a club, where many students came and went but the real artists stayed. Alicia was still there, and hadn’t cut her hair since Marty had known her. It cascaded straight off her head like a brown waterfall, obscuring her backside as she sat on her stool (a pity really, because her backside was aesthetically pleasing, and it was art class after all). Mr. Biagini was gruff but kind, and tacitly tolerant of many personalities and styles – as long as his students produced art at a steady pace. “If you’ve got any talent,” he used to say to every new crop of students, “You owe it to yourself to work hard and make it as good as it can be.”
Marty was working mostly on refining his crude cartooning skills so he could submit lots of material to the Jolly Roger. Mr. Biagini encouraged him to continue painting, even though it often came out looking like an animation background. Marty could definitely recognize the influence of the Road Runner cartoons in his work, enhanced by erstwhile experimentation in the emotional impact of color. He painted a portrait of Half Dome for his mom, and planned to give it to her at Christmas. She used to be an art teacher herself, before she gave her life away to G.O.D. She was very appreciative of her son’s many talents, no matter how they manifested themselves, and cheered for him shamelessly, as only a mother could.
As for Good Ol’ Dad himself, “our father” was effectively out of touch, like some forgotten deity who was known only in myth, and rarely had any influence on reality. Marty drew some golf cartoons to try and get his attention on Father’s Day, and all he got was criticism for the way he drew the golfers’ stance, and how they gripped the club. He remembered how G.O.D. the golf pro had strapped those rules on him like leg braces as a small boy, and now it seemed the imperial master was peeved and disappointed that his apprentice was mocking his commandments. Actually, Marty got the impression he was disappointed about every aspect of his existence.
He was unexpectedly confronted by G.O.D. on his birthday, in a rare display of parental concern, “You need to cut your hair. It looks terrible! Why don’t you take care of yourself?”
Marty replied with a rehearsed line, “I grow my hair long in solidarity with all the people in the world who are judged by their appearance.” His Highness glared at his vassal incomprehensibly, as if he had blasphemed in fluent Mandarin.
Everyone at school seemed to think Marty would go on to become a famous artist, when all he wanted to do was get high and use his art to escape from the lonely prison cell of his own making. Sheltered from the insatiable appetite of “junk food junkies” – as he called the clueless art consumers – he drew some of his best work just to amuse himself. Truthfully, Marty spent a lot of time feeling down about himself, so the boost from painting or drawing cartoons was vital to his spiritual nourishment. At times it felt more like a survival instinct than a talent. He was still contributing to the Jolly Roger, but was often frustrated by the snobby editorializing of the higher-class students. He yearned to draw some underground cartoons about topics that were taboo for a school newspaper, and so the counter-culture rag “Sir Francis Duck” was born. All four pages of that publication were entirely conceived, written, illustrated, copied on a Xerox machine, stapled, and distributed by the young entrepreneur. Fifty copies of the inaugural issue were passed out at school for free to gain an audience, with the popular theme of “The Beginner’s Illustrated Guide to Partying.” The effort had several immediate effects: first, it boosted Marty’s popularity with the bleacher creatures considerably, for whom he was some kind of freak anthropologist revealing their story to the world. Second, he was ostracized by one of the student editors of the Jolly Roger, who refused to print any more of his comics. Fortunately, the prissy one was out-voted by his two co-editors, the instructor, and the rest of the staff. And third, the rest of the Drake faculty, counselors, and administration now viewed Marty as a drugged-out “problem child” who needed extra attention (and who could blame them?). As he prepared the second edition, which he planned to sell for the exorbitant price of 30 cents a copy, Marty the self-employed artist fantasized: gee, if I sell all 100 copies I’ll make 30 bucks!
If wishes were fishes, Marty’s brain would soon be choked with salmon, until they all died and stunk up the place. The second issue sold just 15 copies… all to his friends at the bleachers. Marty’s dreams of being the next underground comic mogul were shattered. He consoled himself with the fact that he was now considered a virtual cult leader on campus: a spokesperson for the chronically stoned, teenage alcoholics, and dysfunctional party people of all ages. Marty developed an entourage in Mr. Biagini’s art room, where the puzzled old teacher just shook his head while looking over the copy of the Duck he’d been given. Hey, Van Gogh and Gauguin used absinthe, so how could he curb Marty’s enthusiasm for art, even if it was fueled by drugs? But there was no third edition. The Sir Francis Duck was dead, forever to be remembered as the funniest paper suitable for lining the bottom of a bird cage.
All that time, the Rusty Bucket Ranch bustled like a train station to nowhere. Jimbo and Marge were lovers again (what a surprise). Otter and Rabbit visited frequently, owing to the sense of “cabin fever” that the old Inuit suffered from being cooped up in an apartment over the hill. He looked so happy every time he returned to the forest, breathing deeply through his nostrils to smell the redwoods, or howling at the moon. Mike & Annie were fighting a lot more, apparently because he was spending too much time at work. She had gotten her license, and a brand-new Ford Bronco from mommy and daddy, which she used to stalk her boyfriend everywhere he went. Annie possessed a phenomenal, built-in radar that informed her of his location at any given moment. They could be partying at a random turnout on the ridge, or on a secluded dirt road somewhere, and suddenly, that blue and white Bronco would appear as if materializing from the Twilight Zone. It was driving Mike crazy, much to the amusement of observers like Marty and Boobers. They mimicked the theme song every time she showed up.
Meanwhile, the dogs at the Ranch had their own little furry subculture. Lobo and Keno were big enough to break every chain brought home from the pet store. They were co-alpha males in the local pack, and they often disappeared for hours – sometimes overnight – so it wasn’t unusual for Marty to find them at the front door when he left for school in the morning. He was used to men, women, and dogs who felt the need to party like there was no tomorrow – but there usually was – and someone had to be there to let them back in to the real world. One morning, after Mike had already left, only Keno was on the front deck, limping and anxious. He kept taking a step or two towards the creek, whining in pain, and acting very much like Marty should go and see what was down there. He feared the worst as he scrambled down the bank, and his heart deflated when he saw a patch of white fur lying still on the gravel bar. Lobo! He rushed to his side, and he was alive! He lifted his head feebly, and Marty could see a streak of blood on his flank as if he’d been shot. Boosted by a surge of adrenaline, he scooped him up in one motion; lifting his 125 lbs. off the ground without even thinking about it. Lobo whined feebly but was too spent to protest. Marty loaded him and Keno in the cab of his truck and drove straight for Dr. Killdeer’s house. School was no longer of any importance whatsoever!
The dedicated hippie veterinarian was rubbing his eyes as he answered the door in his long underwear, but became immediately alert and hyper-efficient when he saw the situation. “Wait here,” he said without hesitation, and ran to fetch a blanket and a syringe of tranquilizer. “Let’s bring him in.” They slid Lobo off the truck’s seat and onto the blanket and the two of them shuttled the wolf-breed into his living room. His compassionate wife, Gloria, took Keno into the kitchen to clean a gash on his leg. Dr. Killdeer ran to the bathroom to wash his hands, directing Marty to get his bag from the closet. The minutes passed like hours as he expertly probed and patted, cleaned and disinfected, and listened to the story Lobo had to tell. “He was probably hit by a car. His pelvis is crushed, and his left hind leg is broken.” The tall, gentle doctor was a miraculous healer, but his bedside manner with humans needed some work. “It’s probably best to put him down.”
“What? No!” Marty exclaimed, “Can’t we do something?”
“He will suffer a lot, but I could put a hip brace on him. I just don’t think he can stay still long enough to let it heal.”
Marty held Lobo’s head in his hands, and tried to look into his eyes to see what he wanted him to do. The tranquilizer Dr. Killdeer had given him was taking effect, so he was fading fast; perhaps to his final moment of consciousness. Marty held his eye open and linked his awareness with the dog’s, and discerned not a trace of resignation – only the primal will to fight, and to live.
“Do it,” he said. “I don’t care how much it costs, I’ll take care of him until he gets better.”
Dr. Killdeer grimly smiled and nodded, as if that was what he would have done, and set about preparing the patient for a long rest. Then he went into the kitchen, and while Gloria and Marty held Keno he stitched up the other dog’s leg. Marty used their phone to call Mike and everybody else who had already gone to work, and they all arrived at the doctor’s house within an hour: Mike, Julie, Marge, Jimbo… even Otter and Rabbit. When one of their tribe was hurt or needed help, that’s how they rolled… all together. A great fuss was made over Keno, because Lobo was out cold, and not aware of the attention. The white wolf certainly couldn’t stay on the doctor’s exam table all week, so Marty and Otter moved him carefully back to the Ranch on a blanket, where he slept on his master’s bed. Marty covered it with plastic first, expecting the worst, but the shock must have shut down his need to use the doggie bathroom, and he slept for two days straight.
All too soon, Marty had to start carrying him outside several times a day to do his business. Lobo whined and curled his lip every time Marty carried him, but seemed to know it was the only way. Although the slightly-built boy could barely lift him, and Lobo’s body tensed with pain, the primal fire in his eye was locked on Marty, expressing loyalty and gratitude beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. The wolf’s display of complete trust and unconditional love was a welcome change for Marty, and it fueled his desire to help him get better. He whined and strained to pee at the appointed times, on top of an old sheet he’d laid out next to the deck so he could see if there was any blood in his urine. Dr. Killdeer had warned him to watch out for signs of internal injuries.
Marty decided to put in a good word for humans at this point, thinking, we get a bad rap for ruining the environment and causing so many extinctions, but no other species on this planet does more to deliberately care for members of other species. He reflected that in rare cases, highly domesticated animals might help each other, out of some odd sense of empathy developed under human husbandry. In the wild, it almost never happens. If you needed help in the wild, you’d get removed from the gene pool in a hurry.
When Marty saw the first signs of Lobo’s blood on the sheet, it was pale and pink. The next time, his urine came out the color of cranberry juice, and he drove his dog back to Dr. Killdeer’s office immediately. The news was not good. “His blood is septic. I’m sure there’s kidney damage, and probably a punctured colon,” he said sadly with his hand on Marty’s shoulder, knowing how much he’d sacrificed to take care of his dog for a week. “It’s time to say goodbye, for his own good.” There was a tear in his eye, for which Marty was forever grateful to him.
He held Lobo for a long time, and his furry pal knew why, which made it ever so much sadder. Marty could feel him saying goodbye, thanking him for trying to help, and promising they would meet again. At least, that’s what Marty told himself, to try and conjure up some comfort in a bleak situation. He couldn’t stay to see the final stages, instead going with Gloria on a long walk while Dr. Killdeer helped his beautiful wolf-friend pass on to a better life. There is so much that animals can teach us about living – it’s too bad they have to die for us to learn it.