I begged my dad to take me to the pet store to buy it; he told me I was stupid for trying to put a collar on a stray, that Chestnut was just after a free meal, that he’d disappear soon enough, that I was wasting my money buying him toys and a collar he’d never wear. But when I slipped the collar over his head, his tail perked up. Like he was proud to finally belong to somebody. My dad thought Chestnut would be a burden on us both. But it didn’t take long for my dad to come around and let him sleep at the foot of my bed.

Kaycee couldn’t believe what she’d missed. She’d had the flu for seven days, she said, and I’d replaced her with a mangy animal. She sulked about it, and I thought she was only joking. I told her she would love Chestnut when she got to know him. I told her how he would eat right from my palm, how his leg would play a fiddle when you scratched his belly just right. I told her Chestnut could be our dog.

I’ve always wanted a dog, she confessed to me, in a whisper.

Once she got into the idea, she couldn’t stop talking about Chestnut and all the fun we’d have together, how we could teach him tricks and at Christmas we could dress him like a reindeer and tie him to a sled.

I don’t know what went wrong, exactly. Maybe he was sick. Maybe we’d startled him. Maybe he just took one sniff of Kaycee and knew. But Chestnut started growling at her, really growling, his back arched, all the teeth showing in his gums. I’d never seen him growl like that. I called his name, I tried to soothe him, as Kaycee stood there terrified.

“He hates me.” And that was the first time ever that I’d seen her cry. Two tears—that was it.

“He doesn’t hate you. He’s only scared because you’re a stranger,” I said, even though I knew it wasn’t true. In an instant, Chestnut lunged for her, snapping an inch from her fingers.

“He tried to bite me!” She was screaming.

I’d never seen her look like that. It was rage, pure rage, like I’d only ever seen on my dad.

“What’s wrong with that stupid dog?”

“There’s nothing wrong with him.”

She looked at me. “Oh, yeah? So you think it’s normal to try and bite somebody’s hand off?”

And then, because I was angry: “Maybe there’s something wrong with you.”

Right away, I wished I hadn’t said it. Kaycee froze. A normal twelve-year-old kid would have cried, or shouted, or insulted me back.

But not Kaycee. She just stood there, very still.

“Maybe,” she said finally. She turned away. Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “Dogs like that should be put down.”

—

Now I ball the collar in my hand. I aim for the trash can, knowing, of course, I won’t do it. For years I’ve threatened to get rid of the collar. For years I’ve pretended that I keep it only to remember him. But I’ve kept it to remember her, and to remember what she did.