It had been one of those days when the sun could not seem to make up its mind whether it wanted to hide behind a curtain of clouds or look out over the world. Throughout the day the light had alternated between the brilliant gold of autumn leaves and the darkness that inspired the owl to open his eyes. The sky was sometimes a deep azure blue, laced with soft white clouds; sometimes it was the deep gray of a wolf’s coat, streaked with distant white lightning and growling black thunder. Now, just as the sun was beginning to set on the hilly horizon, a gray squirrel poked her head over the leafy edge of her nest in an oak tree. She blinked and peered toward the hills as the sun surrendered to dark cloaks of gray-blue cloud that were slowly and steadily pulling across the sky. The clouds were ominous and held trouble for the little squirrel. She was young and nervous. In her anxiousness to evade the predators that lurked on the forest floor, she had not built her winter nest in the giant oak’s strong, secure arms nearer the trunk, but dangerously high in the slender fingers, where the wind blew the strongest, and the rain struck like bullets. Hunger forced the squirrel to abandon these troubling thoughts. She thought of acorns, and began her journey to the earth. She clambered over the mass of sticks and leaves of her nest. A breeze wrapped around the flimsy branches and the squirrel swung for a moment before continuing on toward the rough bark of the tree’s sturdy body. She flicked her tail with agitation. With every step she realized how quickly the wind was picking up, and how urgent was her need to find a new home for the cold, gusty months ahead. The approaching storm was not going to be friendly. The owl held tight, leaning backwards and flapping to keep his balance On her way to the ground, the squirrel passed a hole in the tree. Curious, she poked her head inside. The entrance to the hole was small, but inside it was roomy and cozy. It was also uninhabited. There was no owl dozing in the hole like the booming great horned monarch a few trees down from the squirrel’s oak. There was no raccoon with its harlequin mask and bushy ringed tail. The only living thing in the room was an old bark beetle, a descendant of the bark beetle who had chewed out the hole long ago. The squirrel was not bothered by the beetle. She knew she had found her new winter shelter, and, reassured, she continued down. However, as soon as the squirrel felt the worn dirt under her paws, she was immediately unnerved again. She was an inhabitant of the trees. She survived high in the secretive world of branches and wood. But the ground was insecure, alien—swarming with predators. The squirrel flicked her tail again and looked around. She had expert eyesight, and good color vision; she did not see the scarlet flash of a fox, or the plodding brown boots of a human. Gingerly the squirrel inched across the ground. After a while she came to a patch of earth that had imprinted itself in her mind earlier that autumn. She began to dig feverishly. Her little paws neatly shoveled away the top layer of soil to uncover the scrumptious acorn she had buried a few weeks ago. Eagerly she popped it into her mouth and went to another nut-cache, until the ground was pocketed with harvested holes. Even in her bliss the squirrel glanced around the forest floor for predators. But predators did not live only on the ground. On a branch on the pine tree a short distance from the squirrel, the noble great horned owl was brooding, his eyes half-closed. His feathers were fluffed, his feathery horns standing straight up on his head. His yellow eyes were dull. The squirrel made a quick jump to another cache. This sudden movement attracted the owl and made him alert. His eyes snapped to attention. He dug his talons into the branch and yawned. As the squirrel continued to hop across the ground, the owl twisted his head around until it was nearly upside-down, the better to see every part of the squirrel, the prey. For many days now the owl had gone without a substantial meal. His unhealthy feathers were notched with pale streaks that told of his hunger. The owl extended his long, brown wings and flapped silently from the pine. The squirrel’s head shot up. She looked around, wide-eyed. Just as the owl whirled above her, a snarl of thunder erupted. The squirrel leaped narrowly away and raced up the tree to her new home in the bark beetle’s hole. The owl hooted his eerie call and it merged with the deep thunder. He flew to another tree to sulk and wait for more prey. Another movement below made him lift his wings—but he saw that it was not food. It was a red fox, loping down an old hunting trail with a rabbit in her mouth. The vixen had four hungry kits in a den near the stream that snaked through the forest. She was having to feed them constantly, for the kits were growing rapidly and would leave her in early winter. As if to remind the fox of her purpose, a chilly breeze descended from the looming gray-blue storm cloud and ruffled her fur. The determined fox quickened her pace. The starving owl flapped his wings. He struck the vixen’s mouth and gripped the rabbit in his talons. The fox was reluctant to let go of her well-earned catch. Her own young were hungry. She growled menacingly and pulled, neck muscles rippling. The owl held tight, leaning backwards and flapping to keep his balance. The vixen’s jaws ached. She was forced to let go. In a few seconds the owl had
Animals
Rosalino’s Dog
This is a story about my great-grandfather’s dog. This story takes place in Mexico in the town of Tampico, where my great-grandfather, Rosalino Dominguez, had been trying to get land for poor people, but that was against the government’s laws. My grandmother told me, “The only time he had ever cried was when he had to leave his dog.” The dog’s name was Pinto, and in Spanish that means spotted. Pinto was a very energetic dalmatian, and very big. Every day when Rosalino came home from work, he would say hello to his wife, then spend almost an hour with his dog. He (and sometimes his wife) would throw sticks for Pinto, play with him and pet him. But one day the government found out that Rosalino had been trying to get land for poor people. Men came over and threatened his life, so he had to leave. My great-grandfather decided to go north. He’d heard that in California there were jobs. He decided to go north even though he would have to leave his beloved wife and dog. They would have a big campfire at night and talk about their lives “My beloved wife,” he exclaimed, “I must leave you but I will send what money I can.” He ran to Pinto and gave him a very tight hug. And once he was done, he finally walked away from his home. Rosalino’s wife and dog watched him get smaller and smaller as he walked further and further away. Going, going, gone. And so he began his journey north in search of a job. On he walked without stopping unless it was to drink from a stream or eat some cactus. He had no other supplies. He walked for days and even waded across the enormous Rio Grande, the river that separates Texas from Mexico. After walking for days he looked up and saw something that made his heart skip a beat. A railroad station!! He did not have any money, but that was no problem. He could sneak into a boxcar. So he ran up to the station and went up to a conductor. “What direction is this boxcar train heading?” he asked. “North,” the conductor replied. “Why?” “Just wondering,” my great-grandfather replied. My great-grandfather could not believe his luck. So he jumped in a boxcar and the train pulled from the station. As he rode in the boxcar, Rosalino started really feeling lonely. He missed his wife, his dog and his cozy home. His life was perfect up until the cruel government got in his way. It wasn’t fair that all the good land went to the rich people, and the poor people who worked on it got nothing. “Pinto, is that you?!” Rosalino cried He walked, hitchhiked and rode trains all the way to the Imperial Valley in California. There in the Imperial Valley, he found plenty of work picking tomatoes, peaches, cotton and whatever else he could find. He sent what money he could to his family. Rosalino and the other farm workers lived in whatever shelter they could find near the fields where they worked. So usually they would have a big campfire at night and talk about their lives. Almost everyone there had left people they loved and had to work their hardest just for a little money. Sometimes to get people’s minds off their troubles, Rosalino would talk about the funny things Pinto used to do. “He would chase his tail all day long and once he caught it he would shake it around like a baby’s rattle!” Everyone would laugh at this. One night, while they were sitting around a campfire, they heard a rustling in the bushes. They saw a glow of eyeballs, and out crawled a beaten, exhausted, but happy, Pinto. “Pinto, is that you?!” Rosalino cried. He threw his arms around his beloved dog. Everyone agreed that Pinto’s arrival was a miracle, so the next day they took him to a church to be blessed. Unfortunately, Pinto died about a week later from exhaustion. But still, that dog walked and tracked my great-grandfather for about 2000 miles across deserts, over mountains and through rivers. Through love and determination, Pinto was finally reunited with the man he loved so much. Andrew Shannon, 11Sacramento, California
Creamsicle
It’s dead. That was twelve-year-old Julian Horowitz’s first thought when he spotted the kitten in the white-blanketed woods when he was walking home from school. The kitten was vividly orange and bright white colored, reminding Julian of a Creamsicle ice cream bar. It (Julian didn’t know whether the kitten was male or female) was partially covered by a sheet of snow, and the kitten wasn’t moving, making Julian almost positive the kitten was dead. Julian slowly reached out his hand to the kitten’s fur. What he felt allayed him. The kitten was still breathing, although taking very shallow breaths. He peered closely at the kitten as he rhythmically petted its fur. He noticed that the kitten was female. She was definitely unconscious. “Don’t worry, kitty, you’ll be fine,” murmured Julian. He paused, trying to think of a name for the woebegone creature. “Yeah, don’t worry, Creamsicle, I’ll take care of you.” Julian scooped Creamsicle up and into his coat. Suddenly, Creamsicle shuddered, seeming to regain consciousness for a moment and causing Julian to nearly drop her in surprise. Fortunately, he didn’t, and he tucked Creamsicle tighter into his coat. He shivered himself. It was freezing outside. Even though he was layered in a T-shirt, a long-sleeved turtleneck, two thick sweaters, and a big, heavy winter coat, Julian could still feel the cold. He wondered how Creamsicle felt, with only a velvety covering of fur protecting her from the winter chill. Julian slowly reached out his hand to the kitten’s fur Julian and Creamsicle walked this way for about half an hour, or rather, Julian walked with Creamsicle inside his coat, until they reached Julian’s doorstep. Mrs. Horowitz, who had seen her son hunched over something while ambling slowly up the path to the house, threw open the door immediately. When she saw what Julian was holding, her face transformed to the color of milk. “Julian Horowitz, you drop that . . . that thing this instant!” she shrieked. “That thing is sick with something awful, just look at it closely!” It was true. Creamsicle was now shivering and throwing herself about violently. All of a sudden, the shivering stopped, and Creamsicle fell limply into Julian’s arms. Relief flowed over him as he, once again, noticed that the kitten was still breathing. He thought she regained consciousness for a second. Julian’s mother had obviously detected hints of emotion from her son, for she again began to speak. “Julian, don’t you dare get attached to that kitten,” she said, leaning over to have a look at Creamsicle before continuing. “She’s going to die soon, don’t pretend that you don’t know it, and the last thing I need is you weeping and moping because some stupid kitten that you befriended is dead.” “You’re wrong,” Julian whispered hoarsely. “She’s not going to die, She’s Not Going To Die, SHE’S NOT GOING TO DIE!” He, too, was shrieking, and he added, “Take her to the veterinarian, you’ll see that you’re wrong.” “Oh lord, Julian, how could you? You couldn’t have known this cat for more than an hour, and you are already purely in love with her!” Mrs. Horowitz began to mutter something about pet lovers in the family. “You know what, since you will not believe me, I will take this kitten, now, to the vet for you. If I can’t, maybe the vet can convince you that this animal will die.” Turning deaf ears to his mom, Julian carried Creamsicle into the family’s eight-year-old Toyota. Mrs. Horowitz followed him. Julian had never before been to the local veterinarian’s office because his family had never owned a pet. His mom seemed to hate all animals, his dad, though an animal lover like Julian, had never suggested the family get a pet, and Julian’s seventeen-year-old brother Justin didn’t care one way or the other. So it was a shock for Julian to see his mother zoom across town as if she knew the way to the local veterinarian’s office perfectly, as though she had been to the vet hundreds of times. He wondered when his mom had been to the vet, and why. Now that he wasn’t talking to his mom, Julian began to speak softly to the unconscious Creamsicle. Creamsicle looked terrible. She had taken on a glazed expression and looked almost frozen. Her breath was coming out in shallow gasps. Her body was not functioning properly. Julian, after looking at her, bit his lip and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, Mrs. Horowitz pulled to a stop next to the vet’s office. She, for some reason, looked worse than Julian felt. She was pale and looked like she was going to begin to cry. The receptionist led Julian, Mrs. Horowitz, and Creamsicle into the vet’s office ahead of the other people waiting. “Hello, Mrs. Horowitz,” said the veterinarian, whose name was Dr. Jakes. “I haven’t seen you in about fifteen years. How are Tiger and Buster?” Who the heck are Tiger and Buster? thought Julian questioningly, and how does this guy know who my mom is? “So, what brings you here today?” asked Dr. Jakes. “I found this kitten; she’s sick,” answered Julian shyly. Dr. Jakes picked up Creamsicle gingerly and looked at her carefully. After only a few minutes of poking and prodding, Dr. Jakes announced, “This kitten has hypothermia.” Julian didn’t hear a reaction from his mother, so he didn’t know if hypothermia was some terrible disease or not. So he asked, “What kind of disease is hypothermia?” “Well,” Dr. Jakes began to explain, “hypothermia isn’t really a disease. It’s what can happen to a warm-blooded animal if he or she is left out in freezing temperatures for too long without protection.” As he was saying this, Dr. Jakes placed Creamsicle in a blanket he had gotten from a cabinet, and put the kitten and the blanket down next to a radiator in the corner of the room, then spoke again. “Hypothermia can make your body stop functioning the
