Mom gets me a dog for my ninth birthday because she says all kids should have a dog

But I didn’t ask for a dog. I asked for Grand Theft Auto. Mom says, “There are things in that game that are not age-appropriate,” and I say, “Like killing hookers after you pay them so you can get your money back?” She crosses her arms and looks at me, her forehead wrinkling, but I shrug and say, “That stuff’s all on YouTube.”

Whistle is a lab/pit mix. I named him that because his nose whistles when he sleeps. The whistling used to keep me up, but I’m used to it now. Just like I’m used to sleeping all scrunched up because he takes up the whole bottom half of my bed. Also, he smells sour, like mustard. Mom says he smells like that because he needs a bath, and it’s my job to bathe him because he’s my dog. Also: feeding him, picking up his poop in the yard, and walking him when I get home from school. I remind her I didn’t ask for a dog; I don’t even like dogs. And she says, “You’ll be sorry when he’s gone.” And I say, “I know, I know, you say the exact same thing about yourself.”

For my tenth birthday, Dad gives me GTA when Mom isn’t looking. I know what he’s doing. It doesn’t make up for everything, but it helps. I can only play when Mom’s at work. So, every day when I get home from school, I put Whistle in the backyard and say, “I’m gonna play for one hour tops, then we’ll go for a walk, ok?” But every day, I lose track of time.

Mom’s driving like a lunatic. She says we’re gonna drop Whistle off on some country road so he can be Nice. And. Free. Because this morning, she discovered Whistle dug up all her plants and chewed holes in her hose. Then she found my GTA in my underwear drawer. And now she’s saying this is all Dad’s fault. I hate it when she gets like this, itching to teach someone a lesson. So, who’s the lesson for today? Herself? For promising the shelter people that Whistle would be our forever dog? I pretend to fall asleep so she can’t talk to me, but I actually fall asleep. And I wake up when the back door slams. Then the driver’s door slams, and she’s next to me, both hands on the wheel. I don’t look at her, but I do look at Whistle in the side mirror, sitting attentively, head cocked to the side, like a dummy. And she says, “Hopefully, some nice person who loves dogs finds him.” Then she starts the engine. The tires crackle as we go from the dirt shoulder to the road, and honestly, I’m a little shocked. I watch Whistle go from a sit to a stand, and my insides fizz like a dropped Coke. Then she says, “Hopefully, he doesn’t starve in the woods or get hit by a car.” I know what she’s doing. But I don’t say anything, and she keeps driving, and Whistle gets smaller and smaller in the mirror until I can’t see him anymore. I imagine the upside for him: no more tiny backyard, he has space now, and he can chase all the squirrels he wants. And I imagine the upside for me: no more dumping a pooper scooper full of dog shit into the super stinky poop trashcan, no more waking up with a stiff neck because I slept all crooked, no more closing the kitchen door on his big brown eyes, no more listening to his high-pitched whine while I play GTA. But the longer she drives, the more I panic that when we turn around and go back to that spot — because it’s inconceivable not turning around — that Whistle won’t be there. Maybe some stranger drives by and lures him into their car, or he sees a squirrel and runs into the woods, or he wanders onto the road even though I’ve taught him to stay on the sidewalk. But there are no sidewalks here. I’m feeling car sick. And I no longer care if Mom thinks she’s teaching me a lesson, I want Whistle safe in our back seat again. I say, “Mom, turn around.” Of course, she pretends not to hear. So, I say it again, louder this time, “Turn around, please.” It takes a second, but I can feel her foot come off the gas pedal.