Though not yet five, Sonny Catlin knew not to leave his backyard. But Sonny had heard the puppy’s whimpers and they sounded so close, just at the thicket’s edge.
Mournful wailing. A feeble yelp. Silence.
It must be hurt. He had to help.
He crossed the dry drainage ditch, then entered the wooded area behind his house.
Breath leaking into the cold afternoon air, Sonny crawled up the slope to peer through the heavy brush. Sad eyes locked onto his own. Poor doggie. He reached one hand toward it, but the eyes retreated. It must be afraid. He pushed his entire arm into the gap, wriggled his fingers, but felt only stiff grass. He peeked inside.
There it was. Farther away now. It didn’t trust him. Yellow eyes stared back. It must be really sick. Sonny tried to snap his fingers like his daddy taught him, but they just made a feathery whisper.
“Here, doggie. Let Sonny help.”
At the sound of his voice, the dark mass moved even more distant. Sonny sighed. He’d have to go in after it.
Twisting and squirming through the wood’s dense foliage, he dragged his body forward. On padded elbows, he shoved through the underbrush and came out into a circular clearing. Others had been here before.
