Young Writers Society

Based on a True Story:

I was in panic mode. I couldn’t find him anywhere. He was missing! My dog, Batyr, was missing. My mama told me not to worry, not to search for my beloved pet. She told me that he would come back in a couple days. In the Soviet Union, that never happens. You almost never find your pet again if they run off. I was about to burst into tears, thinking about this.

I could imagine my special spaniel running around freely, his ears flapping in the cool winter wind. I loved how he stuck his pink, slobbery tongue out to taste the fresh air, as his tail was wagging wildly behind him. His beautiful black coat of fur was surely the most wonderful in the USSR. He was my dog; my most precious, perfect dog.

I found Batyr, a couple years back. Being friendless at the time, no one loved me and no one cared about me. My family was poor, so my parents could barely provide for me. I had been thinking of suicide, for there was no reason for me to be there, I was just there to make others’ lives worse. I made my parents work harder and I just took up space in the world.

When I went on a walk to think things over, I found a dog, a little over a year old. It was common to find young dogs on the cold, dark streets. These dogs appeared here because of a terrible fad. What many rich families did, was they got a newborn puppy, which were very cute. The families would love and care for it. When it grew to be a year old and isn’t as adorable anymore, they would drive to the forest, leave the dog there without food or water, and force them to fend off on their own. The clueless dogs would go back and try to find their owners, the weak ones would die off, and other, lucky dogs would live but only off the scraps of human garbage.

I brought the young dog home in hurried delight. Mama was all for keeping the spaniel. She knew that I was going through tough times and that I needed a friend to depend on and a dog was a man’s best friend, so it clearly fit the task. My papa was reluctant at first but he learned to love Batyr. He was the laughter and joy of my family, the light that shone in that old log cabin. He was the purpose, the sign that my life would have a reason.

At my school, there were kids that were really mean to me, they would always push me around, tease me and cuss at me. After school, at least once a week, the group of kids would beat me up for fun. When I come home, with dirt or mud on my ripped clothes and my glasses shattered, my mom would just nod at me and clean the mess up. Since I had no friends, no one stood up for me and I couldn’t possibly stand up for myself. That was until the day, I took Batyr on a walk.

We were walking across the school and the bullies were there standing, looking at me. Their group stood near the school playground, their headquarters. They started to shout at me, they seemed to have told me to come over there. I couldn’t do anything but do as they pleased. I was being pulled by a rope to go over there. The top bully of the gang, Victor, told me that I had to trade over my dog, or I would be pulverized. Of course, I wasn’t handing over my dog, so I refused.

Victor started to grab the bright red leash, trying to pull it away from me, it snapped into two. Batyr raced to Victor, as Victor stretched his arms out to grab him, the spaniel bit his leg. Victor shrieked and started to hop on one leg, as he tried to shake Batyr off. I let this scene play for several minutes and then whistled for my spaniel to come to me. The bullies looked in fear at me for the first time. I told them that if ever they tried to mess with me, my dog would hunt them down. The cluster of bullies never messed with me again.

As I searched for my dog, I found a path of mud tracks. Dog foot prints! I ran as fast as my legs could take me, mud was splashing all over me, but it didn’t matter how dirty that my clothes would get, I had to find Batyr. Near a brown, wrecked shack, I stopped in tracks and gasped in horror. I was petrified from the sight I saw. It had been too good to be true. I knew that he would never be found. I start crying into my muck covered shirt, the mud smearing my face. I had found my dog, kind off. The head of my dog was lying in the mud, blood streaming everywhere. I wanted to gag onto the drowning weeds right next to me that seemed to feel the same sorrow as me.

Who would do such a thing? Who would hurt such a beautiful spaniel? I put the decapitated head into my coat and rush home. Mama looked at me and told me that I was a wreck. She took off my jacket for me and gasped as she saw the dog’s head rolling onto the floor. I break into tears and ducked my head into her shoulder. She explained to me that there were some cruel people out there that would do anything for money. She told me that some fur dealers had taken the body to skin for his fur. Thousands of dogs went through the same thing every year, some like mine, were stolen pets.

Mama tried to comfort me, she told me that we would get a new dog. A dog that would be much better and he would be just like the old dog. I just shake my head, knowing that there would never be a dog as special as my Batyr. Not another dog would have the same beautiful coat. Not another dog could be able to protect me from those bullies. Not another dog could ever be such a great friend.