I began to notice a collarless brown dog that seemed to be following us as the shadows of stucco houses became the shadows of trees and the narrow cobblestone street faded into a packed dirt path. It wasn’t stray: it had a well-groomed coat of hair and was rather clean and friendly, but it wasn’t quite a house dog either. I asked my mother about it, and she told me that I should ignore it—she didn’t want a dog following us thinking we were its owners. My dad agreed. It seemed to run away, but then further up the trail, it sprang from the shaded understory of mulberry trees saplings and grass onto the trail with us. I was trying to obey my mother, but it was impossible to ignore. I found that I shared many similarities with the dog. We both had boundless energy that inevitably made us centers of attention, we both ran ahead of my parents, and we both eventually brought smiles to my parents’ faces. When we passed the last human settlements, an entirely new terrain lay before us: van-sized cacti lay on bare earth scoured by drought and sunshine, semi-lifeless grass reached up from the ground like hair, and occasionally a daring tree stood beside the trail, soaking up the cloudless sky and providing much wanted shade. Another dog, even darker than the first one, began to follow us. His hair was very well trimmed, and he kept a pace equal to that of my parents. He was a house dog, for he had a collar, but he was as dark as good dark chocolate, while the dog we had met earlier was more of a milk chocolate hue. Throughout the course of the trail so far, my father and I had been scouring the area, looking for cactus pears. We had become enthusiasts of the odd fruit since we had found them on a walk. The sweet red-violet orbs hung off cacti by the half dozen or so, and in the local Neapolitan dialect of Italian they were called “figadindis.” We had taken it upon ourselves to name the first dog this, and my parents seemed to be warming up to the idea of letting him stay. Slowly but surely, the life was seeping back into the field, in optical form. At first, the grass became greener and taller, but then flowers and plants of every kind began to carpet the sides of the trail—brooms, tulips, poppies, sea thistles, daisies. As the verdant growth closed in from all sides, the trail narrowed our group down to single file. By this point, Figadindi was our only canine companion, for the collared dog had left. Small lizards scuttled in the fields and sunbathed on rocks, which Figadindi chased for entertainment. My dad now had a plastic shopping bag for holding cactus pears. A few wispy clouds floated on the horizon, shading faraway mountain peaks. From this altitude, the whole of the Amalfi Coast was visible. I was amazed at the beauty of the vista, though I did not show it. We rounded a hilltop, and the trail fell into shrubbery and forest. I was intrigued by the contiguity of such drastic microclimates. Somehow, amazingly, evergreen pines had colonized the sides of the trail, and now the trail was separated from the surrounding thicket by wooden poles that lay parallel to the ground. I could sense that we were getting closer to Sorrento—a highway roared in the distance, and the sounds of wildlife grew ever fainter. We had not even so much as petted Figadindi, yet he almost felt like a family member to me. My parents implied that they felt the same way. About 50 meters from the fringe of the thicket, I heard a large rustle in a tree. Figadindi, crouching, was intimidating a large fowl sitting somewhere near the top of an evergreen. With a few barks, he sent the fowl on its way, breaking a number of branches as it scampered away. My family was awed. Figadindi, unfazed, simply returned to trotting down the path, and we soon followed. We brushed through some bushes and branches, and a single two-lane road lay before us. Over the course of the trip, I had noticed that Italian roads were remarkably narrow, so we deduced that it was a highway. We crossed it and followed it downhill. We then came upon an urban labyrinth of streets, upon which my parents pulled out several maps and navigated us through a winding path of narrow alleys, shady streets, and mossy stairs. In fact, another dog had joined, this one a spotted, short-haired pitbull I named Motley. Relations between Motley and Figadindi were remarkably intriguing–sometimes the dogs were indifferent to each other, sometimes they were friendly, and at some point Motley even tried to mount Figadindi, which made me reconsider the genders of both. After a walk of about a mile, we arrived at a park, where we settled down for some hard-boiled eggs and pickles. The park was only a temporary resting place, for after lunch, it was back to a fun exploration of the streets. For the rest of the walk, we did not return to the wild hills we had been in earlier. Some areas had more plants, some had less, but the two recurring themes were stucco houses and dogs. Frightening canine guards, perched on high walls, made sure that their masters’ gardens were well protected. This area was famous for its lemons and oranges that grew to great sizes thanks to the fertile ash of Vesuvius, and local gardeners made sure no one intruded. Ironically, Figadindi was nothing more than annoyed by the guard dogs and fiercely stood his ground when intimidated. Motley was indifferent to them. We soon came across a large boulevard leading down to the sea. We followed it down a bit and then decided to roost at a restaurant. Motley had left, and Figadindi decided to lie down
Animals
The Pendulum
Most nights, my cat stares at the grandfather clock in the living room. She is a grey tabby with splotches of black and white. Her eyes are golden and edged in greenish blue, like a miniature painting of the sun over a forest, or a mood ring, because you never know when the colors will change. When she is calm, you see more of the gold, flickering. But when she is scared, her pupils are large and black, and you notice more of the green, which is the way she looks before the clock at night—her back arched, her fur raised like small tufts of grass. She stares at the oval shape of the clock as if it is the moon revolving around the earth and the earth around the sun. When the clock sounds on the hour, her ears twitch, but she doesn’t move. She simply resets her eyes, refastening them to the pendulum’s sway. Unlike my cat, I think this time might have been better spent outside in the fresh air like my mother always wants me to do. But for my cat, no second is wasted; she merely sees and does: when she is hungry, she eats, when she is tired, she sleeps, and when she is frisky, she scratches the furniture, no matter how much we scold her. When she is happy, she purrs, or she brushes her side against my leg, nudging her head and nose into my wrist when I reach down to pet her as if she is pleading, but for what I am never sure: more food, a toy, my lap? I never know exactly what she wants except that when I am with her, I am warm and calm, certain there is still enough time for everything. Sabrina Guo, 12Oyster Bay, NYMarco Lu, 12Champaign, IL
What the End Is
I knew how it would end. I knew from that first spring day when my dad and I took the old green pickup over to Big Sky High School’s Future Farmers of America (FFA) building and came back with the 25-pound piglet I called Ash. From that night when I carried an old sleeping bag out to the pen and snuggled up in the straw alongside him. I knew every morning, when I woke up at seven to make sure his feed and water were full. Every day when I let him out in the yard to teach him how to walk for the fair, when he taught me to do what sounds fun in the moment and that happiness is more important than checking items off my to-do list. I knew when I brought letters to local Missoula businesses asking if they would bid on my pig at the Western Montana Fair on August 11, 2017. It couldn’t last. It would be smarter not to become attached, but I couldn’t help loving him anyway. I lie in the sawdust of the pen, arms wrapped tightly around Ash. Tears slide down my face and onto his warm side. I feel every breath he takes. Every heartbeat. But it’s only days now until that beat grows quiet. He sleeps so contentedly. Does he know what comes next? * * * This was my third year in the 4-H hog project, so I had a decent idea of what I was doing, but it was still a challenge to train my pig. I would release him from his pen and out into the yard, and he would immediately run off to eat something. Pigs like to stick their snouts in the ground and dig up the grass, which is not exactly desirable for my family’s suburban lawn. I would rub his belly, and he would flop over on his side and stick his legs out like a puppy. If I was upset about something, I would go out and sit in the pen with him, and I would feel better because he reminded me how good my life was. Of how lucky I was to be in 4-H and to get to raise pigs. Sometimes, on hot days, I would turn on the pump in the middle of the yard. No matter where he was, Ash would come running and drink as much as he could, standing directly under the spigot as the stream of water gushed over him. He was so smart that after a while he figured out that if he put his nose under the handle and pushed up, the water would turn on. * * * I hold Ash close, whisper his name, over and over, telling him I love him, telling him I’m sorry. I don’t say it will be okay. It’s hard to imagine that it ever will be. How many times can I do this? Will there be a day when the pain finally pulls me apart, the pieces left to drift like shadows on the wind? Outside, children still roam the fairgrounds, dragging their parents from one ride to the next, screaming at the moment of weightlessness, suspended upside-down at the top of the Kamikaze, then careening in wild circles on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Teenagers laugh as they try to knock over a tower of bottles, spending more money than they can afford on something they never had a chance of winning. The world still spins; somewhere a man wins the lottery while another begs on the sidewalk. So much like me, that day I got my pig, and now as I let him go. People are born, entering reality at the same moment as others leave. I know this, yet it feels like life has been put on pause. The world slows its rotation, people hold their breath to see what comes next. I close my eyes and lean my head against Ash’s side. I think of the day I got him, so full of joy. My dad and I piled into the 1994 Chevy pickup, old stickers saying things like flammable, do not play on or around plastered onto the driver’s side door. We pulled into the parking lot of the FFA building. The second I was out of the truck, I ran across the pavement and went to look for my 4-H friends and the piglets the FFA students would soon be auctioning. This room, usually as bare and colorless as a black-and-white photo in an old magazine, had transformed into a bustling action movie. Full of sound and motion, adrenaline pulsing, an invisible electricity running through us all. The cold, concrete floor was mostly covered by makeshift pens and illuminated by metal heat lamps. We crowded around the pigs, commenting on which ones had the best muscle tone and build. After half an hour, we moved into an adjacent room, and the auction began. The top 15 pigs would be sold to the highest bidder, at a minimum price of $250. A tall boy stepped out into the ring with a small, white pig, speckled with black spots. The auctioneer called out numbers, and I saw an arm raise. Suddenly my dad lifted his bidding card, and a quick scan of the audience showed that no one else was going to pay for the first animal. Just like that, I had a pig. Though I didn’t admit it then, I felt a pang of anger. This was supposed to be my decision. The price was amazing, only $25 dollars over what the non-auction pigs cost, so I didn’t complain, but it took me longer to love him than it had ever taken me to love a pig before. The fact that he had not been my choice led me to believe that he was not the right one. Now, clinging to Ash
