Akira was a dog. Nitia was a wolf. Akira never cared to think about dogs and wolves living together. Not until Nitia. Akira always thought about wolves, and why they were hated so much. She watched them run through the woods and heard their howls. Her owner, who was a hunter, often said wolves were a disgrace and should never be alive. Akira decided to meet a wolf. After all, what could be so bad about her wild cousins? The dog was racing happily through the woods when she saw another dog. This other dog was a tawny-colored female with pointed ears and a long bushy tail. No, thought Akira. That is a wolf! The wolf turned and saw Akira. They watched each other for some time before the wolf walked forward. They sniffed each other, smelling where they had been and what their names were. Akira smelled that this wolf was named Nitia. Nitia had been the mate of a leader. Then, the leader wolf had then taken another mate, kicking Nitia out of the pack. She was pregnant with his pups. They were due any day. Akira and Nitia spent every spare moment together. When the sun began to set, Nitia would lead Akira up the mountain and they would howl. Nitia often heard her mate and would howl to him. One day, Akira was headed to see Nitia when she heard a loud whine. She looked around and saw Nitia lying in a patch of grass. Her pups were coming! Akira and Nitia spent every spare moment together Akira whimpered. She did not know what to do. What if something bad happened? “Akira?” called the voice of her owner. “Akira, where are you?” Akira’s heart leaped. She smelled his gun. He would find Nitia and kill her! She had to lead him away. The dog headed towards his voice, but it was too late. He emerged from the bushes and said, “There you are! And just as I thought. A wolf.” Nitia closed her eyes. The man drew back his gun, but Akira lunged in front of the wolf. He could not hurt her. “Akira, what is this?” he yelled. “Get out!” Akira did not move. Wolves and dogs were the same. If he could easily kill a wolf, then he could easily kill a dog. She growled. Her owner looked at her, then lowered his gun. “The wolf lives.” He dropped his gun to the ground and backed away. He moved away into the woods and called Akira to come to him. Akira did not. He got her message and hopefully would tell others. Now, Akira would be a wolf. She and Nitia would live together. Wolves and dogs could come together again. Megan Petty, 11Lapeer, Michigan Erik Zou, 11Lexington, Massachusetts
Animals
Maddy’s Last Beach Visit
For the rest of time itself, the spirit of Maddy will always live on here at Fort Funston Beach Our sleek black Highlander pulls up into the parking lot atop the steep cliff. I open the door and jump out, my feet landing on hard gravel with a soft crunch. The salty ocean air fills my lungs, and the roaring of the sea is faint in my ears. My sisters file out of the open car door after me, while my parents are helping our dog Maddy out of the car while our other dog Lila waits eagerly behind. Had this been a normal weekend, this would just be our average trip to the beach this cloudy afternoon. But it will never be the same. Maddy has cancer. This will be her last trip to the beach. Maddy is too weak to walk, so my dad carries her on her dog bed. After everyone is out of the car, we start the walk down to the beach. The trail to the beach is a sandy one that winds through a small forest at a shallow angle. It is a very quiet walk; even the girls are silent for once. The only talking we hear is when we meet people who are coming up from the beach on the other side of the trail. Some notice the hospital band around Maddy’s leg and feel sorry for us. Some stop to pet her, and others walk by without any notice. It’s all right though; I don’t blame them. It’s hard to understand a type of pain until you’ve felt it yourself. We walk through one more grove of trees and then we are at sea level. We can hear seagulls cawing overhead as my dad finds an empty spot on the beach and lays Maddy down. I can see in her eyes that she knows, somehow, she knows that this is her last visit here. The final ending to her story. The cancer has been attacking her body for weeks now, but Maddy puts that out of her mind for this one time. Slowly, she brings herself to her feet. This is the first time she has stood in three days. Then, when she is steady, she begins to walk. Soon Maddy is trotting around in the surf and burying her favorite tennis ball, which we brought to the beach for her. Like the same old Maddy I’ve known my entire life. Carefree and happy, without a thought of cancer in her mind. It is this sight that makes me feel happiness and hope along with a cold, bitter sadness at the same time. A dying dog’s last visit to the place she loves. Eventually, we have to leave. I can tell that Maddy doesn’t want to, but she accepts it. She knows she can’t stay here forever, and she seems content. But for the rest of time itself, the spirit of Maddy will always live on here at Fort Funston Beach. Maddy is put to sleep the next day. Madison Avenue Dreams Kearns, 1997–2010. My mom’s dog baby, my golden retriever sister, and our family’s protector and companion. I think that losing a loved one is one of the most powerful emotions a human can feel. It leaves you with an icy black void in the pit of your stomach, and you selfishly think only of having that loved one here on earth with you. But it was Maddy’s time to go to heaven. She feels no more pain now; her suffering has ended. And while it feels wrong without her on earth, I know that she is still with us. Still watching over us, guarding us, now as I’m writing this, and for every day for the rest of my life. Ryan Kearns, 12Hillsborough, California Jordan Lei, 12Portland, Oregon
Navy-Blue Cloth— Words and Pain
I hope he’ll never forget, he is Kathryn’s dog. My dog “He was mostly your dog.” The words flew in flurries around my head. I shall never forget them. “He was mostly your dog. Mostly your dog. Your dog. Dog.” Never-ending words, a round of angels whispered in my head. A comfort I drank like I would drink elixir. I found a blanket in those words. A mission. A dream that could never be reached. To find him. For the few of us who have suffered this particular loss, you know how it is worse than a pet dying. Knowing that somewhere out there, he lives. Hickory was a flurry of a pup. His brown and black spots said splatter paint, and his black hole eyes had an overflowing cup of happiness. “I have a home!” they seemed to shout, “I have a home!” But he was afraid of my dad. Hickory was abused as a young dog and was separated from his only friend, his sister. We figured, over time, he must have thought my dad was the one who abused him. In the car, we were shouting out names. We didn’t want the pup to be called Hickory. “Juice Box!” “Bennett!” “Clifford!” “Henry!” “Wags!” “Greg!” “JUICE BOX!” Then we heard the words on the radio, “Mason-Dixon Road Line.” Bing. Ding. Bingo! Dixon. Dixon. Dixon. The words curved on my tongue, the way a flower does when it wilts. They floated like clouds above our heads, in a navy-blue cloth. Then they shimmered, and whoosh! Out the window they went, to tell the newspaper, the state, the country, the world, the universe about our dog. Dixon. But good things never last. Two years later, October 16th, he is taken away. Whooshed out of my world, like those navy-blue words were, two years before. Gone from my life. But this time, the whoosh had great pain in it. My calender became filled. On every Friday it read “eight Dixon weeks,” and so on. It had a hopeful look. All my possessions did. We all were holding our breath, we all longed for Dixon to come home, like that Lassie dog did. I still do dream he will. I know he is out there. I hope he’ll never forget, he is Kathryn’s dog. My dog. If you happen to come into my house one day, October 16th, you will come across six people wearing everyday clothes and doing everyday things. But if you travel upstairs, you shall see a girl with straw-colored hair, wearing dark-colored clothing, and in her hands a black band with three tinkling things on it. You shall be curious, so you shall come closer. You will see in her white-with-anger-and-sadness hands, a collar. Of a dog, who shall always have a home in her heart. And if by chance you go by New Hampshire one day and see a dog that is white and black, with splatter-paint spots and black hole eyes, you know who he is. Make sure his cup is overflowing with happiness. Rub his ears, and tell him these simple words, “I will always love you.” Kathryn Malnight, 11Wayland, Massachusetts Alondra Paredes, 12Bentonville, Arkansas
