Free The Poet's Dog by Patricia MacLachlan Page A

and kindling on the hearth.”
    He nodded.
    â€œI’m almost twelve.”
    Flora hung up her coat on a hook by the door.
    â€œWhy are you lost?” I asked.
    â€œThe car slid into a snowbank, and my mother couldn’t get it started again,” said Flora.
    Nickel had stacked kindling and wood in the fireplace. He found the matches on the mantel.
    â€œShe left her cell phone at home. She saw the lights of a house down the roadwhere a family had been shoveling and left us to get help,” he said.
    â€œShe was gone a long time,” said Flora.
    â€œWe could have stayed in the car, but people came and knocked on the car windows, telling us the car was going to be towed off the road before it got covered with snow,” said Nickel. “Flora was scared.”
    â€œNickel was scared, too,” said Flora, making Nickel smile.
    Then the flames of the fire flickered across the room, warming us—the first fire in days. Flora walked over to Sylvan’s computer, touching it.
    I can almost see Sylvan there in the light of the fire, his hair gray like mine—on his head and on his face. Later, when I learn words, I know that this was called a beard.
    I remember when I first spoke words to him. He had read Ox-Cart Man to me several times because he knew I loved it.
    â€œ Ox-Cart Man is a poem,” I say, my own voice startling me.
    Sylvan turns from his computer, beaming.
    â€œYes!”
    Tears come to his eyes, and I walk over to lick them.
    Sylvan reaches up and takes a small mirror off the wall. He holds it so both of us can look into it.
    â€œSame hair. Same eyes. We both think in words,” says Sylvan.
    I’ M THE POET
    Y OU’RE THE DOG.
    W HICH ONE’S THE POET?
    W HICH ONE’S THE DOG?
    â€œThat isn’t a poem, Teddy.
    â€œThat’s our song.”
    Sylvan makes up a tune for it and sings it to me every so often.
    â€œI’d better call my dad. He’s probably out of class because of the storm,” said Nickel.
    â€œNo phone,” I said. “Sylvan didn’t like phones.”
    â€œNo phone?” he repeated.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe computer?”
    â€œNo. Only for Sylvan’s writing. He didn’t connect it to the outside world. He only used it for his words. And no television. He has . . . he had a device for checking the weather. We can look for that later.”
    â€œMy parents will be worried,” said Nickel.
    â€œI wrote a note,” said Flora. “I left it on the front seat so Mama would know we had help.”
    Nickel stared at Flora.
    â€œYou? You wrote a note?”
    Flora nodded.
    â€œI can write, you know. I wrote Were safe in big letters.”
    No one spoke.
    Flora shrugged.
    â€œI made it up. I think I forgot the apostrophe.”
    â€œYou are safe,” I said. “You didn’t make that up.”
    â€œYou did a great thing, Flora,” said Nickel. “Maybe Mama won’t worry.”
    â€œI only did one thing,” said Flora. “You saved me. You wrapped me in a blanket. You got me out of the cold car.”
    Nickel shook his head.
    â€œTeddy saved us.”
    â€œMaybe it was you who found Teddy,” said Flora stubbornly.
    â€œWe found each other,” I said. “The end.”
    Flora grinned at me.
    A log in the fireplace flamed up. The light bounced off the walls like Sylvan’s words when he read out loud.
    Flora went over to look at pictures of Sylvan. There was one of him surrounded by students in the house. And one of Sylvan and me, our heads close together.
    Flora turned.
    â€œThat’s you,” she said.
    â€œAfter Sylvan saved me.”
    Flora turned back to the picture.
    â€œDid someone leave you behind before Sylvan rescued you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLike us,” she said, still looking at the picture.
    Nickel turned from the fireplace, his face sad.
    â€œShe didn’t leave us, Flora. She went to get help for