Sandy: A Story of Love and Friendship

Naomi Gordon-Loebl, 12, USA

Brett slowly walked up the steps to the house in which he had an apartment. He unlocked the door, then, shutting it firmly, began to trudge up the carpeted blue stairs.

The building was not large, a regular house divided and renovated into multiple units, with maybe four renters at most. The owners of the building, a middle-aged couple, occupied the ground floor. Brett's apartment was small, but cozy.

As he reached his floor and walked down the corridor to his black door, loud, excited barks broke the silence of the tranquil hallway. He slowly turned his key in the lock and entered. A large sandy colored dog greeted him.

"Calm down, Sandy," Brett said, reaching down to pet the big dog, whose scruffy paws were now resting on Brett's patched, shabby, brown coat.

Brett walked over to the dirty gray sofa in the middle of the room and sank down into it with a long sigh.

"Well, Sandy," he said to the dog, "From the time I first saw you and fell in love, you were there for me. On my 21st birthday Mom couldn't afford anything else besides you in the way of presents, with Dad dead and all. But it didn't matter. Your love was enough to last me a lifetime, Sandy. You were always by my side, through the good and the bad; the thick and the thin. You're my best friend. But now that's all gone. We can't live here anymore, buddy." Brett looked into the dog's eyes as though he understood. Maybe he did. Brett went on. "I can't pay the rent, Sandy. So I have to move, and you're not allowed to come with me. Pets aren't allowed." Brett brushed a tear out of his eye. "Besides, Sandy," he continued, "I can't feed you anyway. You deserve better than a few scraps of food a day. And I can't give more than that. I'm sorry, pal," he said quietly. "Tomorrow morning." And he went to bed, sobbing silently with Sandy curled up at his feet.

The next morning, Brett rose early. He ate and sat around, sketching Sandy. Drawing was the only thing Brett had ever really been good at. He loved it, and although little was in his apartment, he always managed to find a pencil and a few scraps of paper lying around to sketch with. He loved drawing Sandy. Drawing was a way of expressing his feelings, and right now he was sad.

At 12:00 p.m. Brett stood up from his seat on the gray couch and attached Sandy's tattered leash to his collar. "Let's go, Sandy," Brett said quietly. Sandy, thinking it was a walk, bounding happily down the stairs and out the door, into the beautiful late summer sunshine.

They walked down to the school on 17th Street. Brett lifted Sandy's heavy body over the gate of an enclosure of bushes and trees in front of the school. Sandy waited patiently for Brett to follow him over, but no such thing happened. Instead, Brett tearfully tied Sandy to the gate and began to search for a piece of paper of some sort. He found an ad on the windshield of a parked car, and, using the concrete sidewalk as a writing surface, began a note to put on the fence:

Help this dog. He needs a home. Please. A teardrop splashed onto the paper, and Brett hastily wiped it away. He drew a heart with the word love in the center, then, remembering his prayers for Sandy's safety the night before, wrote at the bottom: Thank you God. Brett stuck the note on the gate and got down on his knees with his eyes on level with Sandy's. He looked into Sandy's deep, dark, eyes, and thought of all their wonderful memories together. He couldn't bear it.

"Good-bye!" he screamed. "Good-bye!" Sandy's mournful barks followed him all the way into a nearby park, where he sat and cried for hours over what he had done, despite the fact that he knew it was the right thing. But at sundown Brett knew what he must do. He stood up to go back to the apartment, to pack up and face the future.