The Good Boy by Theresa Schwegel Page A

until everybody changed to go outside and capture the flag, and then—
    “There he is—” his mom interrupts from the family room.
    And a TV announcer says, “Tonight at ten, Ja’Kobe White speaks out—”
    “Turn it off.”
    “I was jus’ standing there when the officer’s dog attacked me—”
    “I said turn it off.”
    White says, “And Murphy, he know me—” before the TV goes silent.
    Joel waits, listens, feels like his heart is coming out of his ears.
    Then his mom says, “Here we go again.”
    Joel has no idea where they’re going or why they’re going again and he doesn’t care. What he cares about is if Butchie’s okay.
    He isn’t even quiet as he goes back down the hall, across the kitchen and out the back door. He jumps down from the top step, crosses the yard, and turns the corner to the dog run.
    Butchie must’ve known Joel was coming, because he’s sitting at the front of the cage, and at perfect attention—except for the tip of his snout and the end of his tail, which move in time, one confirming the other’s excitement.
    “Hi, Black-and-tan,” Joel says, feeling better just seeing him there. He tries a handful of gate codes before he figures out tonight’s; his dad is real specific about that, to keep Butchie safe. His dad means to keep them all safe, certainly. He wonders what that man White was talking about on TV, and if his mom meant they’re going to have to move again.
    Butchie stands on all fours and then turns circles, panting. Joel unlatches the lock and pushes the door open, says, “Hello there, Lieutenant Commander,” and when he kneels down to scratch behind the dog’s radar-ears, the scabs on his knees don’t bother him at all. His hands are small and awkward and his nails are down to the quick so he can’t scratch, really, but Butchie doesn’t mind about things like that. His eyes are set on Joel, hard-candy caramels.
    “I missed you, Big Feet,” Joel says, burying his face in the thick scruff of his neck. He has a bunch of different names for the dog, and every one suits him. Not like his own nickname, Jo Jo, which his mom says makes sense because his middle name is Jarlath, after his grandpa. The name’s pronounced YAHR-leh, though, so “Jo” isn’t right. But still, he doesn’t mind the name, when his mom says it. It’s better than Joely.
    “Did you catch a bad guy today?” Joel asks Butchie. “I bet that nose of yours tracked Mr. White and I bet no matter what he says, he’s sorry for the very first thing he did wrong.”
    Butchie says, “Euu-nerff,” and the wag that started in his tail takes over his whole body, pushing Joel off balance and onto the pavement. Butchie follows, his cold nose interested in Joel’s ticklish neck.
    “That’s good, puppy,” Joel says, cheeks dimpled by the best dog-induced smile.
    Then, like a response to something Joel can’t sense, Butchie turns and looks out at the darkness, past the cage wires’ quick fade to black. He wags his tail and says, bothered, “Hurmm.”
    Butchie is trained to find illegal drugs and track criminals and also to sniff out danger, and all of those sudden possibilities give Joel the pink spiders. Especially because he’s only human, and can’t see or hear or smell what Butchie’s worried about. And really especially because of the news on TV. He backs into the corner of the cage, against the garage wall.
    He whispers, “What is it, boy?”
    Butchie comes over and sits in front of Joel. He tilts his head, ears half cocked like when he thinks he’s in trouble. His sweet eyes are so sorry.
    “What’s wrong, Butch?” Joel wishes they could understand each other.
    Butchie edges forward and then gives his certain answer: a big wet tongue to the face.
    “Aw, dog germs!” Joel says, the victim of a sneak attack. He wipes his cheeks; it’s only then that he realizes the dog was licking tears, and what’s wrong is that Butchie does understand. In fact, he might be the only one who