The dog attacked our neighbor's kid this morning. I watched it happen from the kitchen window. Mom had gone to the garage to warm up the minivan while I sat in front of a half-eaten bowl of apple cinnamon oatmeal. Mr. Graham's daughter was in their front yard, stumbling through the snow.

Then Bogart trotted onto the driveway. My first thought was that Mom would blame me for his escape, even though he probably slipped out through the garage while she was busy flooding the engine. He stopped in mid-trot. His ears pricked as he caught sight of the girl. Steam blew from his snout in short bursts. He dropped his head and charged her.

The girl, with her head snug inside the fur-lined hood of her snowsuit, couldn't hear Bogart coming. He lunged and caught her at the shoulder. He shook her in his jaws, shredding the snowsuit and exposing down.

"Bogart!" I knocked over my chair.

Mr. Graham must have been watching her from the front door. He streaked onto the yard and jumped on Bogart with the same savagery the Doberman had shown the girl.

Bogart tried to clamp onto Mr. Graham's forearm. Mr. Graham rolled on top of him. He got both hands around the dog's neck. Even from the kitchen, I could tell that he was putting every muscle in his body into it. I don't know how long I watched. I only know that I saw the moment when Bogart stopped struggling.

"What the hell are you doing!" My mother came out of the garage and ran to the scene. She swung a girlish haymaker and hit Mr. Graham in the face. Mr. Graham's daughter wasn't in the yard anymore. She must have run inside when her father freed her from the dog's jaws.

I went outside and crossed the driveway. My mother shrieked, "Bastard, you killed it!" Mr. Graham shouted back at her. I wanted to go over there and take his side. I wanted to tell my mother the stupid animal had mauled a little girl.

Mr. Graham didn't argue long. He went back into his house, cursing my mother over his shoulder.

"I guess we'll see what the cops think," my mother said. She walked past me on her way to the kitchen door. "Talk to me like that," she said. "I'll have his ass arrested."

I wanted to explain what Bogart had done. I wanted to explain a lot of things, like how calling the police wouldn't do any good. She should have known. It didn't do any good the last time, when she reported my father for arriving to pick me up fifteen minutes early. I wanted to tell her how much I hated apple cinnamon oatmeal.

I watched her go through the kitchen door.

Bogart lay still. I walked to him. He looked dead, but I didn't want to touch him to make sure. He wasn't my dog. He was never anybody's dog but Dad's, no matter what the judge said. The dog, the house, the son...

Mr. Graham's car pulled onto the street. His daughter sat in the passenger seat with her arm over her head.

Bogart snorted.

I looked down at him. The eye that wasn't facing the ground was open. It stared straight ahead. A low gurgling sound came from his throat. No louder than a kitten's purr, but I knew better. He was trying to growl at me.

I glanced at my house. Mom was still inside, shouting ridiculous things at some unlucky dispatcher. I looked back at Bogart. I showed him my teeth. I lifted my foot and brought all my weight down, driving the heel of my shoe into his neck.

The wet growling stopped. His eye still stared, but now it was glassy instead of mean.

I knew I was going to be late for school. I walked back into the house and waited for the curtain to fall.