Good Boy

By Brad Shaw

He could sit. He could shake. He could speak on command. He could fetch. But he still wasn’t a good boy. Not yet.  

He had been rescued off of the streets. He came from a pack of five and seemed less like the leader of it and more of a challenge in training him to be the best boy that he could be. And while he was getting there slowly, he wasn’t quite there. Not yet.  

I had named him Champ in the hopes of him embracing the name with every fiber of his being and applying it to how he approached life. A life full of vim and vigor, of triumphs over failures, success at every turn.  

While I could call him Champ, I couldn’t call him a good boy. Not yet.

But I was hoping to after the big tournament was said and done. I wanted him to be number one. He had to be. We trained constantly to assure that this would be the case, utilizing my version of the tournament obstacle course I had built from scratch; hoping they wouldn’t change it up from last year’s model I had based it on.  

Watching him, stopwatch marking away the seconds that kept him from being a good boy, the living embodiment of his name. He just wasn’t there. Not yet.

My conundrum is that I didn’t want to wear him out too much in practice so that he would underperform when it counted. I could see it in his eyes. He wanted to make me proud and in some strange fashion that he understood what was at stake. 

I had lost my job at the cannery about a month ago, and there was a real chance that I could be losing the farm both in figurative and literals terms. Those eyes bore into my soul. He and I were in the same boat, trying our best to beat the odds.

I gave him one of his special energy treats, the sun sparkled off its white exterior before he greedily took it from my outstretched palm. And off he went like a shot, and my stopwatch confirmed my biggest hope that he was on target for completing the course with seconds to spare! 

He ran over, panting and waiting for me to say what he’d been waiting to hear, that he was a good boy. But I couldn’t verbalize it. Not yet.  Hopefully tomorrow would be the day. And as the velvet cover of night melted into morning purple and orange, I let out a huge sigh and said an internal prayer that this would happen.

Once we were on the field, I let out another sigh. The course was just as I had recreated it, giving us a definite advantage. But as I cautiously looked around me, reaching for his special treats in a little sack I’d hidden behind me; I decided against it, not wanting to tempt fate in winning only to lose because the unnatural energy would give him an unfair advantage.

As it turned, I had been right. Champ made his way through the course in no time flat, beating all the other contestants by a country mile. He ran up to me, sweating, his blond hair sticking to his forehead with that same look of “Did I do good?” on his face, which he vocalized.    

“Yes Champ, yes.” I said as tears filled my eyes, running down my snout.  

“Am I a good boy?” He asked.  

“Yes Champ, yes.” As I said this, it felt strange to not have to put a not yet caveat on it.  

With the money he had won and a trophy I scrapped for its gold, I was able to save the farm. But that happened a few days from now, a now where we were both basking in the glory of the win.  

But all those on Dogstar knew that it was strictly precursory in the case of Champ and his ilk, that they were merely here as Dog’s Best Friends. Still, I was as proud of him as if he been sired by myself.

I figured it couldn't hurt to give him his sugar treat now that the tournament was over. He immediately perked up and began to run home. He was still going strong in the backyard, doing the obstacle course just for fun while I fixed us both dinner.

I was no longer bitter to look at the can of Good Boy Chow. I still had the farm my father had left me, enough money to carry us over for years and would never again have to punch a timecard for them.  

After our simply delicious meal, crafted by yours truly, but referring to myself as Chef Larry in my mind, he leaned against the wooden barstool. His mighty yawn from the inevitable sugar crash and full stomach competed with my howls of joy at what my pet had done, of how he had become a good boy.