Michael Broadmer grabbed an old baseball and tossed it hard across the yard. He’d wanted a dog since he was six years old. Now eight, Michael made up his mind; this had to be his dog!
“Come on, boy. Get the ball!” Michael shouted.
The dog chased the ragged ball, picked it up, and returned it to Michael.
“Good boy!” Michael said petting the scruffy canine which his dad had said looked like a German shepherd.
The tatty dog with mud crusted in its fur had appeared that morning on the Broadmer’s back porch hungry and needing a bath. Michael begged his parents to let him keep the dog, but his father had insisted that someone must own it. Michael knew his father could be right but he’d kept on pleading. Quickly shifting his glance to meet his mother’s eyes, Michael had made a silent appeal to her, but she’d not uttered a word in his behalf. Michael’s parents supported one another most of the time when dealing with their son; this was not an exception.
Michael wanted this dog for his own more than anything else he could recall. A German shepherd was just the kind of dog he’d wished for so many times, and now Michael was playing ball with this magnificent dog of his dreams! His dog!