Brave

by Jennifer Li Shotz

  The dog would have to be very brave to have survived so long on his own.

  “Come here, buddy,” Dylan said softly. He held out a hand for the dog to sniff, but he took a few scuttling steps backwards, huddling in the corner by the dumpster again.

  “Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you,” Dylan said. He backed away a couple of steps.

  With a little distance between them, the dog seemed to calm down. His ears dropped as he cocked his head to the side and watched Dylan carefully. Since he didn’t have a collar or tags, there was no way for Dylan to know his name—if he even had one.

  “How about I call you Brave?” Dylan said. “Because that’s what you must be if you’re surviving out here on your own.”

  Brave wagged his tail once. Dylan took that as a good sign.

  “Sit, Brave.”

  Brave blinked and furrowed his brow a little, as if he were thinking hard about Dylan’s command. Dylan waited for the dog to sit, but he didn’t. Brave just watched him expectantly, his eyes bright and his ears perked up.

  Though he was dirty and a little scared, there was something very calm about Brave. He was definitely a good dog—how had he ended up hungry and on the streets? That didn’t seem fair to Dylan. Not one bit.

  He had an idea.

  “Stay here,” Dylan said to Brave. Then he disappeared around the side of the building and came back pushing his bike and hopping on it at the same time.

  “Follow me, okay?” he said to Brave. “I mean, come.”

  Dylan rode slowly out of the parking lot, giving the dog time to catch up. At first Brave watched him ride away, and Dylan wasn’t sure his plan would work. After a moment, the dog stood up and took a few tentative steps after the bike—then hesitated and sat back down. It was almost as if he wasn’t sure if he should follow Dylan but he didn’t want to be left alone.

  Dylan coasted at a crawl, looking back over his shoulder. Brave took a few more steps and began to follow him, trailing a safe distance behind. Dylan pedaled and picked up a little speed.

  About a block from the restaurant, Dylan spotted a dark blur by his right leg. He looked down.

  It was Brave. The dog was running right next to him. Dylan sped up, and Brave picked up the pace too.

  “Man, you’re fast!”

  Soon Dylan was pumping his legs as fast as he could, and Brave raced beside him with ease. He even looked like he was enjoying himself. His gait was smooth, his tail was pointed up to the sky, and his tongue dangled from his mouth in what almost looked like a lazy smile.

  Dylan pedaled, Brave ran, and together they made it all the way home.

  ★ Chapter 3 ★

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  Dylan’s family lived on Juniper Hill Road on the northwest edge of San Antonio, where the city gave way to countryside beyond. Dylan’s house was on a residential street with a paved road, but just a few homes away from his, the street intersected with a county road that led straight to ranch land. It was city on one side and country on the other, two different worlds colliding. Depending on which way the wind was blowing, you could smell either the horses or the cows from the Garcia Ranch, just a half mile down the road. If you were unlucky, sometimes you could smell both at the same time.

  Dylan rode straight into the open garage, Brave at his heels. He hopped off the bike and turned around to find Brave sniffing at a pile of his dad’s fishing gear. The rods and reels and tackle boxes stuffed with lures and spindles of translucent line took up a quarter of the garage—and always made Dylan’s mom roll her eyes.

  “Don’t touch Dad’s stuff!” he warned Brave. The dog flinched at the sound of Dylan’s voice. “Sorry, buddy,” Dylan said, lowering his voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Brave’s body relaxed a little. “It’s just that the fishing gear is off-limits—it’s Dad’s favorite thing in the whole world,” Dylan went on. “Besides me and Mom, I mean.” Brave tipped his head like he knew Dylan was trying to tell him something but he couldn’t quite make out the words.

  Dylan shooed Brave away from his dad’s things and opened the door that led to the kitchen. He held the door open, but Brave hesitated. They blinked at each other for a moment.

  “It’s okay,” Dylan said. “Take your time.”

  Brave sniffed at the air, stretching his nose toward the inside of the house. Dylan could tell he was curious. Finally, with one last worried look at Dylan, Brave took a step. He paused. Then he took another. Slowly he tiptoed past Dylan into the house and made his way around the perimeter of the kitchen. With his snout hovering a couple of inches off the ground, he explored the tile floor, the baseboards, the crumb-speckled circle under the dinner table. Dylan followed the dog closely. Brave was snuffling along the edge of the refrigerator when a loud crackling noise exploded outside, followed by a series of pops. They both jumped.

  It sounded like fireworks—kids in the neighborhood were probably lighting them in a backyard. But before Dylan could reassure Brave, the dog panicked, scuttling across the kitchen floor, his claws scratching on the linoleum. He shot into the living room and—unable to squeeze under the couch—leaped on top of it and desperately scrambled to hide behind the cushions. He burrowed into the back pillows, sending them flying. He kicked and dug his legs under the seat cushions, knocking them to the ground.

  “No!” Dylan cried. “Not the couch!” His mom had only bought the sofa a few months ago, and she treated it like it was more than just a piece of furniture. Every night when she came home from work, she lowered herself onto it with a contented smile on her face. Before bed each night she fluffed the cushions, and every couple of days she vacuumed it thoroughly. Even Dylan was barely allowed to sit on the couch, and now there was a dog thrashing around on it.

  A dog. In his house.

  Dylan’s stomach churned as he suddenly realized he’d brought a strange animal into their home. Not just strange, but out of control. Dylan hadn’t stopped to consider that maybe Brave had been on his own for so long, he didn’t know how to live with people.

  “Brave, cut it out!”

  But Brave just kept digging deeper into the couch. When a pillow tipped onto his head, he snatched at it with his mouth, clamping his strong jaw tightly around it.

  Dylan grabbed the cushion to pull it away from Brave, which only made the dog bite down harder. The harder Dylan pulled, the more Brave pulled back, a wild and terrified look in his eye. Dylan couldn’t believe the grip he had on the cushion. Suddenly, with one loud, horrible ripping sound, the whole thing came apart in Dylan’s hands. White feathers and yellow clumps of foam flew in every direction, torn to shreds by Brave’s sharp teeth.

  Dylan’s mom had saved up for a year to buy that couch, and now Brave hadn’t been there for thirty seconds before he was tearing it apart. What if Dylan couldn’t control this dog? There was no way his parents would let him keep it.

  Dylan had barely even had time to react when Brave started clobbering another cushion with his paws and jaw. Dylan reached for it, but Brave bit down into it, holding it firmly.

  What commands could he give the dog to make him stop?

  “Brave—NO!”

  Brave’s ears shot up in panic, but he didn’t release the pillow.

  Dylan’s brain scrambled for another one. He’d never had a dog before, let alone trained one—he’d only seen trainers giving commands in movies, or read about it in books.

  “Drop it!” Dylan cried, his voice ringing with desperation.

  It was like a miracle. Brave dropped it. His eyebrows scrunched together, and he gazed up at Dylan with a confused look in his eye. He whimpered, a mix of fear and remorse.

  “I’m sorry,” Dylan said, exhaling in relief. “I didn’t mean to shout at you—but the couch . . .” He looked down at the cushion in his hand. What was left of it was a slobbery mess. Feathers and foam floated through the air and settled in a thin coating all around the living room. Dylan’s heart pounded in his chest. “Mom’s going to freak out!”


  Frantically, he started gathering up what was left of the cushion and looking around for a place to hide it. He was heading for the hall closet when he heard Brave scratching and snorting behind him. Dylan spun around with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. The dog was spinning in a circle on the couch, gnawing and pawing at the cushions again.

  “No! No, no, no, no, no!” Dylan shouted. “Stop—please just stop!” But Brave ignored him. The dog seemed to be on a quest to destroy the one piece of furniture Dylan’s mom really cared about.

  Dylan’s mind whirled as he tried to figure out how to stop the dog from eating another pillow. Clearly commands were only a temporary solution—what he really needed to do was distract Brave. But was there anything the animal wanted badly enough to make that work?

  That was it. There was one thing Dylan knew Brave wanted more than anything: food. Brave was starving, right? Dylan raced into the kitchen and grabbed the first thing he saw: a loaf of bread. He ran back into the living room, waving the bag in the air. Could dogs even eat bread?

  Brave immediately stopped his attack on the couch. Dropping the pillow, he jerked his head up, sniffed the air, and turned to point his snout at Dylan.

  “Ah, so you’re still hungry, huh?” Dylan said.

  Brave snorted to clear his nostrils, but he didn’t seem sure about how to get his paws on the food he was smelling. Dylan had to think fast. He crinkled the bag of bread to make some noise. Brave’s ears twitched at the sound. Then Dylan removed a slice of bread and chomped off a big bite, exaggerating the sound of chewing.

  Now he had the dog’s attention.

  “This is the best bread I’ve had in a long time. I bet you’d like it too.”

  Dylan crinkled the bag again to emphasize the point.

  That did the trick. Brave hopped down from the couch and hustled toward him, his nose bobbing on the air tracing the scent of food. As the dog approached, Dylan broke off a piece of bread and held it out. Brave was too skittish to take it from his hand. Dylan placed the chunk of bread on the floor and backed up a few steps, giving Brave some space.

  It worked. Brave darted forward, snatched the bread off the ground, and swallowed it in one bite, then retreated a few steps to watch Dylan—and wait for more.

  Dylan couldn’t believe it—he was actually starting to communicate with Brave. That was the good news. The bad news was that the couch looked like it had been hit by a hurricane—with teeth.

  Dylan knew he’d have to clean it up quickly and figure out how he was going to explain the mess to his mom. But first he had to get Brave squared away so he couldn’t cause any more damage.

  Dylan fed Brave some more and led him into his bedroom. The dog circled the room, sniffing the carpet and getting the lay of the land. He seemed calmer now that he’d had something to eat and gotten used to the house a little.

  “Don’t eat my pillow,” Dylan said. “Or my bed. And especially not my baseball glove. Dad gave me that for my birthday.”

  Just to be sure, Dylan picked up his baseball glove, put it in his sock drawer, and closed it tight.

  “Okay, Brave, we have to have some house rules,” Dylan said. “I’m technically not allowed to have a dog, but let’s just say you’re visiting for now. Got it?”

  Brave woofed and perked up his soft gray ears, like he was listening to something on a frequency Dylan couldn’t hear. A split second later, Dylan heard the front door open.

  “Hey, Dyl, I’m home!”

  It was his mom.

  Dylan’s palms went clammy. He hadn’t had time to fix the couch or hide the pillows.

  Startled by the sound of her voice, Brave was shaking. He jumped up and barked.

  “Quiet, Brave!” Dylan whispered. He held a finger to his lips. “It’s just Mom. Don’t be scared—and keep it down.”

  Brave watched Dylan’s hand and looked confused. Was this some new game? He barked again, louder this time.

  Dylan’s stomach sank. If Brave kept barking, they were both going to be in huge trouble. Plus, there was already the problem of—

  “What happened to my couch!” his mom screeched, her voice rising to a high pitch that reminded Dylan of a fire alarm going off. At the sound of her shouting, Brave hunched down and backed up behind Dylan, until he bumped into the nightstand and couldn’t go any further.

  Suddenly the bedroom door flew open and Dylan’s mom stood there, her face bright red, her arms clutching the remnants of a couch pillow. “Dylan, you’d better have a good reason—”

  She froze, her mouth dropping open as her eyes swung from Dylan to the cowering, dirty dog at his feet.

  “I can explain,” Dylan started to say, but Brave interrupted with a series of barks and growls that took both Dylan and his mom by surprise. Out of nowhere, the dog reared up on his back legs and scratched at the air with his front paws, as if he were fending off an enemy. He landed on all fours and spun around in a tight circle, his whole body vibrating with agitation and excitement. Brave wasn’t being aggressive, Dylan realized—he was just scared.

  “Dylan!” his mom screamed. Brave froze and dropped into a crouch, his tail down. He looked up at her with a guilty expression on his face.

  “Mom—you’re scaring him!”

  “I’m scaring him?” She stopped herself and took a deep, slow breath. When she was calmer, she tried again. This time her voice was low and quiet—the way it got when she was really, really angry. “Dylan. Why. Is. There. A. Dog. In. Your. Bedroom?”

  It was worse than Dylan had feared. His mom was pausing after every word. That meant he was in big trouble.

  “I can explain,” he said again. “He’s a stray and he was in trouble, and I couldn’t just leave him—”

  “We can’t have an untrained dog in this house,” his mom said, her voice getting louder again.

  “He’s trained,” Dylan lied.

  His mom held out a piece of torn cushion foam, offering evidence to the contrary.

  “Okay, so he’s a little rough around the edges,” Dylan said.

  His mom’s voice rose again: “You know what’s rough? My couch!” She sounded even angrier. “It’s destroyed!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw Brave stand up. The dog whimpered and scratched at the floor.

  “He’s a stray, and he’s filthy,” his mom finished. Her top lip curled up on the last words.

  Just then, the loud popping and crackling sound of fireworks cut through the air again. Dylan’s mom squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears with her hands.

  “What is that sound?” she asked through gritted teeth. “What is going on around here?”

  Before Dylan could reply, Brave’s whole body tensed up, and the fur on his back stood on end. For a millisecond, it seemed as if he would just stand there, shaking. But all of a sudden, the dog leaped forward and darted right between Dylan’s mom’s legs, running out of the bedroom like he knew he was in big trouble. Dylan had wanted to do the same thing many times, but he knew if you ran away from an angry parent, that just made things worse.

  “Don’t let him loose in my house!” Dylan’s mom yelled as they rushed after Brave. But the dog didn’t want to stay in the house—he wanted out. Brave ran into the kitchen, searching frantically for the exit. He spotted the sliding door and headed right for it, not knowing that the glass door was open but the screen door was closed.

  Brave flung himself at the door, leaping so hard that he knocked the screen right out of its track, and kept going.

  Running over the screen on the ground, Dylan dashed out of the house after Brave. He couldn’t just let him get away. He’d found a lost dog—or, a dog had found him. That had to be a sign that they were supposed to be together, right?

  He just had to make his mom understand that Brave needed him.

  “Mom, I’m sorry,” Dylan called over his shoulder. “I’ll explain later. I just have to catch Brave!”

  ★ Chapter 4 ★

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  Brave bolted across the yard, around the front of the house, and out into the street, Dylan following close behind, running for all he was worth. But Brave had four legs instead of two, and he was much, much faster.

  “Brave, stop!” Dylan shouted.

  “Dylan, stop!” his mom shouted, bringing up the rear.

  But neither Brave nor Dylan was going to stop. Brave was too spooked by the noise and commotion, and Dylan was too scared to lose Brave. Neither of them was going to listen to anyone or anything.

  Brave picked up speed.

  This was not going well at all.

  At the end of the block, Brave bolted straight across the county road. Dylan held his breath and scanned left and right for traffic. Luckily, there wasn’t so much as an approaching car. Brave charged ahead, and Dylan just hoped he would stop when he hit the fence that marked the beginning of the Garcia Ranch. But as the dog approached the barrier, it instantly became clear that nothing was going to stop him. He jumped over the four-foot-high split-rail wood fence like it was nothing at all and raced straight into the Garcias’ fields.

  Dylan ducked between the rails and through the fence. He felt weird crossing onto their property without permission—it was something he’d always been told not to do. Even though they lived just a few hundred yards away from each other, homeowners and ranchers in San Antonio had different lives, and they didn’t always see eye to eye.

  Dylan knew he had to respect their property, but he also had to get the dog. He could see Brave running straight across the ranch, past a long barn with a pointed roof and a series of low outbuildings. He was worried the dog would be spotted by a rancher—or, worse, not spotted. Dylan didn’t know much about ranch life, but he knew there were dangerous things all over the place. Tractors and heavy machinery. Cattle and horses and who knew what other animals. There were plenty of ways for a dog to get hurt.