When I found him in the closet, he was hyperventilating. “Mom, don’t open the door!” he begged, his tears soaking into Barnaby’s fur. “The police shoot bad dogs. The man said Barnaby is a bad dog. Please, Mom, hide him.”
I tried to explain. I tried to use logic. I told him the neighbor was just grumpy. I told him the police help people. But fear doesn’t listen to logic. In Leo’s mind, the uniform meant death for the creature he loved most in the world.
I was furious at the neighbor, but mostly, I was heartbroken. How do you fix that level of terror?
Feeling desperate, I called the non-emergency line at our local precinct. I felt silly doing it. “Hi, this isn’t an emergency, but my son is terrified of you…” I explained the situation through my own tears, just hoping maybe an officer could drive by and wave, just to show they weren’t monsters.
“We’ll see who is in the area, Ma’am,” the dispatcher said.
Twenty minutes later, a vehicle pulled into our driveway.
My stomach dropped. It wasn’t a regular patrol car. On the side, in big bold letters, it said K-9 UNIT.
I thought, Oh no. This is too much. This will scare him more.
Officer Harrow stepped out. He looked like a giant—tall, broad-shouldered, sunglasses, vest, the whole nine yards. But then, he did something unexpected. He opened the back door of his SUV and let out his partner: a stunning, sleek German Shepherd.
He walked to our front door and knocked gently.
