Buster, Caleb Huett [great novels .TXT] 📗

hard choice—but I’d do it again if it meant helping my human.”

Lasagna winced. Buster was not supposed to be talking.

Pronto clicked his claws against the hood of his bumper car in a sarcastic clap. “Such a hero! Buster the Miracle Dog!”

Buster’s eyes fell to the ground. I guess there was no chance they’d forget.

Pronto leaned back on the side of his car and spoke to the crowd behind them. “We have no idea how humans will react when they realize the truth—and they are, historically, a very dangerous species. Our silence, our continued secrecy, is the only thing that keeps us safe. You have threatened this safety, Buster, all for the sake of this …” He checked his notes. “Antonio.”

The sound of his boy’s name made Buster bristle. “Tonio is a good boy. My job was to protect him.”

“Your job was to lay low!” Pronto barked a laugh. “To live the rest of your dog years in Bellville, quietly, without making any more trouble.”

“Tonio was my responsibility. I couldn’t just do nothing!”

“Well, I sincerely hope this human was worth the rest of your life.”

Lasagna finally worked up the courage to squeak out an argument. “Your Honor, this is all out of order. Buster hasn’t even had the chance to tell his side of the story.”

“He doesn’t need to!” Pronto turned back to the judge. “The line between Good and Bad Dog behavior is very clear. Furthermore, thanks to Buster, the humans could be planning something as we speak. We don’t have time to waste on this trial.”

This is it, Buster thought. I’m not even going to get a chance.

Lasagna shook his head. “I understand the urgency of this situation, but Dog Law is very clear that anyone accused of Bad Dog behavior must be allowed to tell their side of the story. You of all dogs should know that, Pronto.”

The judge turned her snout from Lasagna to Buster to Pronto. We must all look so small to her, up there, Buster thought. When she spoke, all ears perked up to listen. “He is correct. The accused will speak.”

Pronto bowed again. “Of course, Your Honor.” He turned his sneer on the corgi. “This won’t change anything, Lasagna. You’re begging for scraps.”

The judge returned her gaze to Buster. “Begin.”

Life at The Farm would mean no more days at the dog park. No more scratches behind his big, floppy ears. No more humans. And no more Tonio.

A deep breath. A strong stance. Buster kept his eyes up and looked straight at the judge. “For everything to make sense, I have to start with the last time I ended up in Dog Court …” He glanced at Lasagna, who bobbed supportively.

“… back when I was Buster the Miracle Dog.”

I’ve never been very good at the sit-and-stay. When I decided to become a fire dog, I was told over and over by humans and dogs to follow my orders and only my orders. Do the tricks. Never make my own choices. That’s what makes a Good Dog.

And I believed it! I took it to heart and followed every rule as closely as possible to make sure I was the Goodest, most helpful, most fire-doggiest fire dog I could be. As a puppy, I imagined myself with one of those big red hats on my head, tugging a hose around in my mouth and carrying babies out of burning buildings.

Turns out that’s not what fire dogs do anymore, if they ever did. “Sit for the picture, Buster!” they’d say. “Stay here and watch the station until we get back, okay, buddy?”

“Isn’t he so cute in that little hat?” and “He’s so lucky, getting to lie around all day.”

“Such a cutie.” Or the worst: “What a mascot!”

Mascot. I was a Good Dog who might as well have been a stuffed animal.

So I started chasing fires. I would listen in to where my humans were being sent, then sneak out on my own and try to help without getting caught. My team covered only a small area of the big city, so I could make it to the majority of emergency calls on foot.

Most of the time I could only help in small ways—every once in a while I’d sniff out a piece of important evidence and lead someone there, or I’d run along the perimeter and push people out of the danger zone. Usually, I would find humans after they’d been saved and comfort them the best I could.

The time I became Buster the Miracle Dog I was playing low-contact no-human Fetch (street rules) with some other dogs in the park, when I smelled smoke.

One sniff: Hungarian food. No, not that. Two sniffs: smoke. Definitely smoke from an active fire. Started with grease, maybe? Probably from a kitchen, mixed with—three sniffs—Hungarian food. The restaurant was on fire!

I didn’t hesitate, didn’t think about being a Good Dog. I dove in. By the time the rest of my team from the station had arrived, I’d evacuated the restaurant with some vigorous barking.

I was too lost in the action to remember most of it, and I thought the humans didn’t see me do anything un-dog-ly, ’cause the smoke was thick and they were all panicked. But afterward, a couple insisted that I had saved their baby from his high chair and carried him outside myself. I don’t actually remember doing that, maybe I did, but either way, someone from the news listened to their story and came up with the name.

The concentrated smoke messed up my nose (it’s a little farsmelled now), but I didn’t mind being known as a Miracle Dog. My station was overjoyed, the treats flowed like rain, and it felt like the whole city wanted to shake my hand. But you know how it ended. Dog Court thought I was getting too much attention, hit me with several counts of Reckless Lassie Behavior, and quietly shipped me to Bellville, where nobody knew who I was.

I still