Noodle Helps Gabriel Say Goodbye

  To Jennifer Grant

  Thanks for introducing me to Gus, Noodle’s inspiration-dog, for cheering me on in my writing, and for believing in animal rescue as much as I do.

  To Chicago’s Anti-Cruelty Society

  This is where I imagined Noodle. Grateful for the good work you all do.

  www.redchairpress.com

  Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  Names: Rivadeneira, Caryn Dahlstrand, author | Alpaugh, Priscilla, illustrator.

  Title: Noodle helps Gabriel say goodbye / Caryn Rivadeneira ; illustrated by Priscilla Alpaugh.

  Description: Egremont, Massachusetts : Red Chair Press, [2020] | Series: Helper hounds | Summary: “After losing her first two forever homes, Noodle knows all about the sadness of goodbyes. But in her new home with Andrea and as an official Helper Hound, Noodle helps Gabriel deal with the loss of his grandfather”-- Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781634409155 (library hardcover) | ISBN 9781634409186 (paperback) | ISBN 9781634409216 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Dogs--Juvenile fiction. | Human-animal relationships-- Juvenile fiction. | Loss (Psychology)--Juvenile fiction. | Grandfathers--Death--Psychological aspects--Juvenile fiction. |CYAC: Dogs--Fiction. | Human-animal relationships--Fiction. | Loss (Psychology)--Fiction. | Grandfathers--Death--Psychological aspects-- Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R57627 No 2020 | DDC [E]--dc23

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019951548

  Text Copyright © Caryn Rivadeneira

  Copyright © 2021 Red Chair Press LLC

  RED CHAIR PRESS, the RED CHAIR and associated logos are registered trademarks of Red Chair Press LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in an information or retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical including photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission from the Publisher. For permissions, contact info@redchairpress.com

  Photos: iStock

  Printed in the United States of America

  0520 1P CGF20

  CHAPTER 1

  My nose worked through the weeds, wildflowers, and tall grasses along the fence. Of all my favorite spots on the campus of North Branch University—the wide lawn, the cafeteria dumpsters, the porch on Old Main, the beanbags outside the library, the welcome fountain, the alley behind our house—this path along the river is my favorite. After all, this is the place where I could play my favorite game: Guess That Animal Smell.

  It’s a simple game. Try it sometime. Rules go like this:

  Sniff the dirt, a bush, a tree, a stump, or the fence. Then you match the smell with the ugly mugs of all the animals you know. Then you guess.

  Sniff, sniff. Match, match. Guess, guess.

  Badger! No, raccoon! Wait… Otter? Could it be? Yes, otter!

  Since it’s a game you play by yourself, you decide who wins. And guess what? I always win! I’m great at sniffing out the creatures that live along the river that runs through campus — and the city that we’re in.

  But, I also love this spot because of the trees and tree stumps that line the river. The students come here to wander through the trees and to sit on the stumps and “chill out,” as Andrea calls it. She says they need to breathe some woodland air in the middle of the city as they experience nature and relax.

  That may be, but when I bump into the students (which is every time I’m out here), I know they come here to see me. Because every time they see me, the students smile and shout my name: “Noodle!” And though they talk to Andrea, they kneel down and scrub their fingers into my hair and tell me all their troubles, worries, hopes, and about how much they miss their dogs back home.

  I listen to them. They pet me. It’s a win-win!

  And today proved to be no different.

  “Noodle!”

  I jerked my head up from the base of the pine tree I was sniffing. I was this-close to guessing squirrel (Stubby the Squirrel to be exact). But that would have to wait. A student was calling me. I looked toward the voice.

  Nate! He was one of the best students here at North Branch University.

  I strained at the end of my leash to get to him further up the path.

  “Easy, Noodle,” Andrea said.

  I slowed down—at least, until Nate said my name again. This time Nathan said it nice and slowly like I liked it. In fact, Nathan kept the Noooooooodddddllllle going as he knelt down with lips stuck out in a kiss to greet me. I loved that.

  “Hey Nate,” Andrea said. “A little chilly out here today, huh?”

  “Nah,” Nate said. “Feels good. Soccer practice was rough. Coach Colbert ran us hard.”

  “Well, you have a big match on Saturday,” Andrea said. “Folks coming?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Dad’s not doing great. Mom is worried about driving too far from his doctors.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Andrea said. “Tell your folks I said hello. And how about you drop by the house sometime next week for dinner? Ann would love to hear about this season’s team.”

  Nate smiled and nodded. Then he dug his fingers deeper into my curly hair and said, “Noodle, you make me miss my girl. I wish you could meet her.”

  Nate had told me all about his dog, Toast. Toast was an actual poodle, Nate said. Not like me. I’m a Doodle—a standard poodle mixed with a Golden Retriever. Last time we talked, Nate wondered why anyone would mix up an actual poodle. He said they were the smartest, most athletic, best dogs around. “Why mess with perfection?” he asked.

  Andrea said something about how she didn’t like it either. But, she didn’t like anyone breeding dogs for any reason.

  “Rescued is the best breed!” Andrea always said.

  I was sure glad Andrea rescued me—actual poodle or not!

  “Any Helper Hounds cases coming up?” Nate asked.

  “In fact,” Andrea said. “We need to get back to the house. I just got a text about a boy having trouble getting over feeling angry that his grandfather died. He doesn’t let himself cry and won’t go visit the cemetery.”

  Nate sighed and looked toward the ground.

  “I don’t blame the kid for being angry,” Nate said. “I’m angry about my dad being so sick too. I don’t want him to die.”

  Andrea put her arm on Nate’s.

  “Your dad is going to be okay,” she said. “I just know it.”

  Nate nodded. “That’s what the doctors say. But I worry, you know?”

  “I do know,” Andrea said. “And any time you need to talk or hang out with Noodle, stop by, okay? Petting Noodle helps a lot with worry.”

  “It does,” Nate said. “She’ll be able to help that boy with his grief too. She knows a thing or two about that right?”

  Andrea smiled.

  “Yup,” Andrea said as she reached down to scratch me. “Noodle knows all about grief. She’s had to grieve two families now. Poor fuzzy girl.”

  Andrea reached down to scratch the fluff on the top of my head.

  “Yeah,” Nate said. “That’s the tree you planted in honor of her old man, right?”

  Andrea looked over to the small maple tree growing between the giant elms and pines.

  “That’s the one!” Andrea said. “Curly keeps peeing on the plaque. I think that’s how she honors his memory!”

  Nate laughed.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “But she’s been through so much and keeps on loving whoever she meets. She’s a great role model. Maybe not the part about peeing.”

  Andrea and Nate laughed. A clock chime rang in the distance.

  “Shoot,” Nate said. “It’s seven. Better get back to my
homework. Thanks for chatting. Bye, Andrea. Bye, Noodle.”

  “Let me know about dinner,” Andrea said.

  Nate nodded and pet me one more time. My tail swished and swished. As we watched Nate walk away, I smelled the smallest bit of skunk rising from the riverbanks.

  I pulled toward the river, but Andrea changed direction.

  “You heard me,” she laughed. “Gotta get back and see how we can help Gabriel. We need to help him with his anger and his grief.”

  I could do that. I may not be an actual full-blood poodle, but I am an actual Helper Hound. But that wasn’t the only reason. Andrea was right. I’ve loved—and lost—two families now. I know how sad and scary that is. Before we get to Gabriel, let me tell you my story.

  CHAPTER 2

  The dogs in the kennels around me barked. I lifted my head off my cot. I heard a man shuffling on the cement outside our gates. I stretched and put my paws down on the cool kennel floor and took two quick sniffs to get more information.

  Lemon. Honey. It smelled like the drink my boy’s mom used to bring him before bedtime to help him sleep when he got his coughs.

  Poor Jimmy. He had trouble breathing, and he really wanted a dog. Jimmy’s doctor said not to get him one because of Jimmy’s allergies. But his mom and dad said every boy deserved a dog—allergic or not. So Jimmy’s parents plunked out two thousand dollars to get me from a “good breeder” because I was “hypo-allergenic.” That meant, because I have hair and not fur, I’m not supposed to make people cough and sneeze. Turns out, it’s not always true. (Andrea says a “good breeder” should know this and not sell dogs to people with terrible allergies.)

  But, whenever Jimmy and I played together (which was a lot), he coughed and wheezed. Jimmy cried when his mom said I would have to go. I hoped his tears would change his mom’s mind, but it didn’t. She said they would have to try another kind of dog because I didn’t work out for him.

  I thought I was working just fine. But one day, when Jimmy was at school, his mom brought me to the animal shelter. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Jimmy. That was really sad.

  But the people at the shelter were very nice. They fed me, walked me, gave me a stuffed monkey to play with, and loved me when they could. But it got lonely there. I missed playing with Jimmy. At night I would lie in my little cot and wonder if Jimmy was playing with another dog—and if he loved that dog like he loved me. I wondered if I’d ever get to play with another boy—and if I’d love that boy as much as I loved Jimmy. I couldn’t imagine it. Jimmy was the best.

  During the day, I learned to scoot toward the front of my kennel when people approached. If the people looked nice (and they almost always did), I would bark once—maybe twice—to get attention and then sit with my tongue out. Sometimes I’d tilt my head. The nice people would stop and admire my shaggy red curls or my huge head. I’d stand, wag my tail, and let my tongue droop further. Then, almost always, once of the nice people would say, “She’s adorable. She’s just so big.” And then they would move on to the other dogs.

  The thing is, I was just a little puppy when Jimmy’s family got me. But now, I am big, and my fluffy hair makes me look even bigger—especially my head.

  One day, Kelly at the shelter said I should get “shorn” like her sheep.

  “You’ll look smaller,” she says. “But you’ll also look less curly!”

  Since my name was Curly back then, I guess it was important that I looked curly. So they decided to keep my hair big and curly. Turned out, being curly didn’t matter so much. My name was about to change—sort of.

  CHAPTER 3

  The man squinted at the card on my kennel gate. I sniffed and sniffed his honey-and-lemon smell. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses.

  “Curly?” the man said. “The Golden Doodle?”

  I sat and let my tail swish on the cement floor.

  “Curly the Doodle doesn’t work at all,” he said.

  My head drooped. This was the second time someone told me I didn’t work.

  “No,” the man removed his glasses and looked straight at me. “You’re a Curly Noodle the Doodle if I ever saw one.”

  Then he leaned on his cane and bent closer to me. The man reached a finger through the fence and scratched my head.

  “This mop you’ve got is like a bowl of macaroni,” he said. “Like my wife used to make. Do you like macaroni?”

  My mind drifted back to the bright orange noodles that Jimmy used to slip me under the table. A small puddle of drool formed by my feet.

  “I could make us some, I suppose, if you do like macaroni,” the man said.

  I liked where this was going.

  “Excuse me,” the man said.

  Kelly stopped in front of my kennel.

  “Yes?” Kelly said as she waved to me. “Hi, Curly!”

  “Could you tell me about this dog?”

  “I’d love to,” Kelly said. And she told the man all about Jimmy and his coughing and how much I loved to play fetch and roll around.

  “Well,” the man said. “I don’t have much wrestle left in me. But I live near a college. I could walk her there every day and she’d have no shortage of young people to play with—if she missed that.”

  “How about you and I go talk for a moment and then we can see if you two can’t get to know one another?” Kelly asked.

  The man nodded and reached a finger through the gate to pet me.

  “See you soon, Noodle,” the man said.

  I watched him walk away.

  • • •

  I slurped my water in the corner.

  “Curly—er, Noodle.”

  I looked up.

  Kelly stood in front of my kennel with a leash in her hands. I loved this part of the day! A walk!

  But this wouldn’t be a regular walk. The man stood next to Kelly.

  I jumped and jumped and acted all kinds of wild while Kelly tried to connect my leash to my collar.

  “Curly,” Kelly said. “Mind your manners. Sit please.”

  I sat.

  Kelly clipped my leash on. I left the kennel like a bolt of lightning.

  Kelly pulled back on the leash and called my name. The man watched, his eyes wide.

  “She calms down when she gets outside,” Kelly said. “I promise.”

  And she was right. I always wanted to run past the kennels. Every time a dog walked past the other dogs, every dog in the place barked and barked and barked. It got stressful—so I walked fast! Besides, I had to pee and I wanted to be outside!

  But once I was outside—and able to hear the neighborhood sounds of trucks and birds and kids running in the playground across the street—I settled right down.

  After I peed, Kelly handed the man my leash.

  I’d never walked with someone who used a cane before. I sniffed it as the man took my leash.

  “Not all dogs are crazy about canes,” Kelly said. “It makes some dogs nervous. Curly just seems interested. That’s good.”

  We walked around the parking lot and through the small patch of grass and trees. I sniffed and sniffed. That skunk had been here recently, ten, maybe twelve, hours ago. I put my nose to the wind. Which way did it go…

  Before I could figure that out, Kelly called us toward the picnic tables. The man and Kelly sat. Kelly told me to go sit. So I sat—and decided to rest my chin on the man’s knee. It seemed like he could use that. I did too.

  “She’s a good girl,” the man said as he scratched my head. “She walks like a dream. Is it a problem that I live in an apartment?”

  “Normally we prefer bigger energetic dogs like Curly to be in spaces where they can run around,” Kelly said. “But you said you take daily walks through the college campus?”

  “My morning, noon, and evening ritual,” the man said. “My wife and I took those walks for 30 years together. I haven’t missed a day since she died. It’s nice to stop and talk to the kids, but I miss walking with someone.”

  Ke
lly smiled and leaned down to kiss me. I kissed her back.

  “Whatcha think, Curly? Do all those walks sound like fun? Would you like to go home with Mr. Fusilli?”

  I stood up, hoping they’d understand that I was ready to go.

  Mr. Fusilli reached for his cane, but it tipped over before he could grab it. I’ve picked up lots of sticks in my life. So I just picked up that one for him too. Kelly and Mr. Fusilli thought that was great. They both laughed until Kelly stopped and said: “Wait a minute. Fusilli. Isn’t that a kind of curly pasta?”

  “It is!” Mr. Fusilli said. “It’s a curly noodle. That’s how I knew this was the dog for me.”

  CHAPTER 4

  So that’s how I came to live with Mr. Fusilli. I lived in his apartment for two of the best years. Just like he told Kelly at the shelter, every single day—rain, shine, sun, or snow—we walked through the college campus near our apartment. It was the best. I loved the smells and the students.

  The students would see me and come running. They were all happy to sink their hands into my hair and scratch my back or to squat down and tell me about their days. Sometimes they’d sneak me a treat, something left over from their cafeteria.

  When we’d get back, Mr. Fusilli would read his paper on the sofa in the sunroom and sip his honey-and-lemon tea. I’d stretch out next to him and catch a snooze or two.

  Sometimes I still thought about Jimmy. I wished I could see him. But my life with Mr. Fusilli was good. I loved Mr. Fusilli, and he loved me.

  Then one day, Mr. Fusilli didn’t get up. I put my head on his chest to remind him that it was time for our “morning ritual,” but he didn’t move. I knew something was wrong. So I climbed on the bed and curled up next to Mr. Fusilli to see if that would help.

  I watched the sun rise again and again from the bed.

  I whimpered and barked, but no one heard me. It got pretty lonely in the apartment—and I felt bad for peeing and pooping under the dining room table. I felt even worse for jumping on the counter and grabbing the loaf of bread and ripping open a bag of chips. But I was hungry—and I had to go!