Invisible Fences Read Free Page B

outside in that mess,” she said more than once.  
    July 18, 1971. That Sunday morning’s victory over church and time and weather was cause for a special celebration—maybe even a little mischief. 
    I heard the screen door screech open and bang shut. “Wasn’t sure I’d make it this morning,” Pam said, then she bounced down the three cement steps. “I had to fold one end of the pillow over my eyes to block the sunlight.”  
    She picked up a gray tennis ball, muddy and matted with dog drool. “Ready, dummy?” She moved the ball back and forth; Atlas followed the motion, as if shaking his head in the negative. “How about now?” This time, with Pam moving the ball up and down, Atlas nodded “yes.”  
    No matter how dumb the dog, you can teach it a trick or two. You just have to figure out the right kinds of tricks. 
    “Here,” Pam said, and she tossed the tennis ball straight up into the leafy oak. Atlas stood under the tree and barked as the ball bounced slowly down, ricocheting from limb to limb. It took an unexpected hop before the last drop, but Atlas caught the ball in his mouth after the second soggy bounce.  
    “Your turn,” Pam told me. 
    I didn’t much care for this next part. Atlas was a gentle dog, not at all intimidating. He wouldn’t give up a toy easily, though. Pam and Dad both liked to grab a ball or rag or bone in Atlas’s mouth and try to pry it free, tugging and making fake growling noises to taunt answering growls from Atlas—deep yet playful, almost a parody of canine anger. His lips snarled up over the gums, yellow teeth gleaming large and slick. Atlas was a big dumb dog, but he was Atlas, so I wasn’t scared he’d bite me. But big dumb dog mouths produce a lot of drool: I didn’t want that smelly, slimy stuff on my hands.  
    Pam was watching, though, so I went through the motions. I pinched the ball between the tips of my finger and thumb, tried to tease it out gently, but Atlas nudged his wet nose into my palm then shook his head back and forth, slobbering on the inside of my hand. With my other hand, I tried to pinch his jaw at the hinge; Atlas opened his mouth, the ball shifted, then Atlas clamped down on it again. I tried a tighter grip on the ball, my pinky rubbing against the dog’s slimy tongue, and I felt the jaw start to slacken. The instant I pulled the tennis ball free, Atlas let loose a head-shaking, lawn-sprinkler-style sneeze.  
    “Yuck,” I said while Pam laughed. “You can have your nasty tennis ball.” I dropped the ball at the dog’s feet, then held my right hand away from my body and shook it in the warm air.  
    “Hope you don’t catch Atlas’s cold,” Pam said. Funny thing: neither of us tended to get sick in the summer, but we suffered more than a few fever-less headaches or stomach cramps during the school year. Mom was sympathetic to any illness, and didn’t question us if we somehow healed miraculously once the school bus pulled away from our street. Still, some of Mom’s germ phobia rubbed off on me, especially when I thought of a dog’s bad breath heating up its thick, sticky drool. Not bad enough for me to run inside and wash my hands with soap and water, you understand, but enough to make me feel icky for a little while. 
    “Let’s see who else is around,” I said. We liked to do a sweep of the back yards in our neighborhood—better than calling people on the phone or knocking at their doors, since you could see right away who was around, and if the other kids were having any fun. If you just drop in on a group, it’s easier to leave if you get bored.  
    The Liebermans, directly across from us in the cul-de-sac, was a popular stop. They had a decent play set in their back yard, with two swings and a slide. There was a fun element of danger to these swings: if you arced out too high in front, the whole metal frame would lean after you a bit, its rear legs lifting slightly out of the ground. They’d thump back in place as