A boy learns responsibility. A dog proves what loyalty costs.
The day we went to the pound, my mom wasn’t sure I was ready for a dog.
“Today is the day we go to the pound,” I said.
“Yes, Arney,” Mom replied, “but you have to finish your chores first.”
It was my turn to wash the dishes and pull weeds. We had a dishwasher, but you still had to practically scrub the dishes before putting them in. In my opinion, what was the point? I hated doing dishes, especially because my sister Beth never helped. She always made peanut butter sandwiches and left the knife covered in peanut butter, or she’d eat granola and leave soggy cereal glued to the bottom of the bowl. I had to scrape it off with my hands. It was gross.
When I finished, Beth walked by and said, “You’re not cleaning the dishes all the way.”
“You complain, but you don’t even empty your bowl,” I said. “I have to use my hands to clean your mess.”
Mom came in, checked the dishes, and frowned. “Arney, you need to do a better job. Slow down and take your time.”
“But Beth always — ”
“This isn’t about Beth,” Mom said, pulling the dishes off the drying rack and putting them back in the sink.
I washed them again. Beth got to complain, but I didn’t. When I was done, Mom said, “If you’re going to have a dog, you need to be responsible. Right now, you’re not showing that. Go pull the weeds, and then we’ll see.”
If I didn’t get to go get a dog, I was definitely blaming Beth.
I took my time with the weeds, pulling every one carefully. When Mom inspected the garden, she nodded. “Good job.”
At the pound, there were dogs everywhere. Small ones. Big ones. Some barked, some whined, and some just stared through the bars like they were hoping someone would rescue them. It made me feel bad knowing I could only take one home.
I stopped in front of a cage. “Mom, I want this one.”
It was a black German shepherd.
She hesitated. “Let’s get a smaller dog.”
“But he likes me,” I said. The dog had come right up to the cage and pressed his nose against it.
“A big dog is more responsibility,” she said. “And you haven’t been very thorough lately.”
I pointed out the window. “Look at the garden.”
She sighed. “Okay. But if you neglect this dog, he goes back to the pound. That will be on you.”
The shelter worker told us the dog was three years old, had all his shots, and was previously named Doogy. I thought about changing it, but he looked like a Doogy, so it stuck.
“I won’t neglect him,” I promised.
We put Doogy in a kennel in the back of Mom’s SUV, stopped for dog food, and went home. I bought him a food dish with my allowance and fed him right away. He followed me everywhere.
“Doogy has to stay outside,” Mom said.
“Can he stay with me just today?” I asked.
“If he goes to the bathroom in the house, you’re in trouble.”
He followed me into my room and curled up on the floor. He was already housebroken, which helped.
Beth walked by and wrinkled her nose. “If he’s in your room, it’s going to smell like dog. Dogs are gross.”
“And you’re not?” I said.
“Mooooom!”
“You two stop,” Mom said. “Beth, you’re older. Set an example.”
Dad tried to train Doogy to fetch, but he was a one-person dog. He only listened to me. The rest of the summer went well. Beth started bringing guys over. She was going into her junior year of high school, and I was starting as a freshman. I lost count of how many guys there were.
One afternoon I was watching old reruns of Star Trek when
Beth came in with a guy.
“We’re going to watch something else,” she said.
“I’m finishing this,” I replied.
The guy stepped closer. “Move it, weirdo.”
Doogy growled. Then he barked and showed his teeth. The guy stopped where he was. They both left, and for the first time in a long while, I got to finish what I was watching.
When school started, Doogy slept on a rug in my room. Dad built a doggy door, and Doogy became part of the family. Beth still didn’t like him, but it was what it was.
I always had a friend when Doogy was around. He was good with my friends, but he was also my bodyguard. Nobody messed with me.
One night, Doogy scratched at my door and whined. I thought he needed to go outside, but instead of heading to the backyard, he went to the front door. That’s when I saw Beth struggling with a guy in the driveway.
I opened the door, and Doogy ran.
The guy had Beth pinned against the car, covering her mouth. Doogy jumped on him, biting his arm. I called the police. Beth got free, and my parents came running outside.
The guy grabbed a tire iron and swung it, shattering Doogy’s back leg just as the police arrived.
At the vet, I thought they’d put on a splint and send us home. Instead, the vet said, “We need to amputate. We also recommend putting him to sleep.”
I couldn’t stop crying. My parents tried to explain, but then Beth spoke up.
“You are not putting Doogy to sleep,” she said. “He saved me.”
After a long moment, Dad nodded. “We’ll do the surgery.”
Doogy came home a few days later. He learned to walk again without complaining. He still slept on the rug in my room.
Doogy was always a good dog. One spring day, we were at the park throwing a frisbee. He ran after it, awkward but fast, and brought it back, tail wagging, eyes bright. He dropped it at my feet like he had done something important.
In that moment, I knew we had made the right decision. He wasn’t broken. He was still my dog — still my best friend — and I was glad I didn’t lose him.