“Your dog attacked my child! I’m going to sue you!” the woman screamed, storming into my yard. Her little girl sobbed in her arms, clutching a scratch on her stomach.
I was stunned. My dog, Rocky, sat quietly by the flowerbed, tail wagging. He’d been with us for nearly five years—gentle, calm, never aggressive. But the woman had already called the police, demanding he be put down.
Trying to stay calm, I said, “Rocky wouldn’t hurt anyone. We have a security camera—let’s check the footage.”
We all went inside and watched. On screen, Rocky lay peacefully near the bench. The girl walked up to him holding something shiny. Suddenly—click—a zap. Rocky yelped and ran. The girl stumbled backward and fell.
A stun gun. The scratch must’ve come from the fall.
The woman went pale. “That’s not hers…” she whispered.
One officer asked, “Where did she get it?”
She sank to the floor. “My husband kept it in the car… she must’ve taken it.”
Silence filled the room. Rocky padded inside, looking around gently, as if checking on us all.
My sweet dog had been blamed for something he didn’t do—and handled it with more grace than the people accusing him.
