Writer’s Block: Runaway

A boy’s faithful—and furry—friend comes to his rescue

A touching tale of loyalty and friendship between a young runaway and his fourlegged friend.

The knapsack was packed: one half jar of peanut butter, one new jar of Mom’s jam, a plastic knife—the real ones were not allowed out of the house—five buns, two apples and three bananas. He let himself out the back door early one Saturday morning because going out the front was awfully hard with the old lock being so difficult. The boy looked at Maxie, his sad-faced chocolate Lab.

“You stay home, Maxie,” he said in the most authoritative voice a seven-year-old could muster. Maxie’s tail beat the ground and her mouth hung open in hopes of an early morning walk. “You can’t come with me and I’m never comin’ back!”

He turned left out of the driveway and headed down the rough sidewalk of the old tree- lined street. It was quiet and very early.

At the park, three-and-a-half blocks away, he sat and began to have breakfast. The creation of a sandwich with the acquired ingredients was tougher than it looked. As he was taking the first bite, he noticed Maxie at the end of the bench. “Go home, Maxie!” As he stared at the dog, a sudden push propelled him off the bench and onto the leafy path.

“Wha’d yer doin’ here?” came the voice of someone older and tougher. The voice’s owner put one black-booted foot near the boy’s hand and glared down, leather creaking. The boy smelled the three assailants as much as saw them.

He just looked up, with wide eyes, at the ruffians who stood over him.

“This is our place, punk. We don’t appreciate nerds gettin’ in the way. Beat it.”

The boy clutched at his knapsack, but one of the larger boys grabbed it away, saying, “This will just be rent for the bench.”

The smaller boy scuttled away through the park at a quick trot and didn’t stop until he had exited at the far side by the playground, gone another two blocks and arrived at a corner convenience store. Bitter tears stung his eyes. He felt totally alone and very afraid.

Looking back toward the park, he became aware of a warm presence standing very close.

“Maxie,” he said, “I told you to go home. Now go. You’re no help to me and I’ll just get you in trouble. I’m always in trouble.”

The boy leaned against a newspaper box and pondered his next move. All his food was gone. His knapsack was gone. That realization gave him a jolt. It was the one his grandmother had given him last spring. She had died since then, so there wouldn’t be another. His mother had explained this several times, and the memory of that funeral—the jacket and tie, the somber faced, soberly dressed relatives—caused tears to well in his eyes.

“What are you doing here, boy?” came the gruff voice of a woman.

The boy looked up to see a dirty dress and torn

MATTHEW PENNY has been writing and creating content for more than 40 years. Beginning with student radio at university, he moved on to the CBC, then to various magazines, newspapers and periodicals. For more than 20 years he hosted and helped produce a local TV program in London, Ont. A native of New Brunswick, Matthew grew up in a culture where family history, social learning and simply growing up was steeped in the telling of stories. Short stories are his specialty, though he’s published one short digital novel. Matthew says entering short story competitions on CBC and other places has earned him a 100 per cent record—in that he hasn’t won a thing!

apron hanging on a large woman who stood in the door of the shop. Her fly-away hair gave the appearance of a witch, which made the boy’s heart skip a beat. Without saying a word, he took off running down the street.

After a block or two he slowed to a walk. There were no trees on this street. This was not his neighbourhood. It was the new subdivision his parents had argued about over supper. He didn’t understand why they argued. Something about trees and houses and frogs and mud puddles. Walking among the homes that all looked so similar felt like walking on the moon. Nobody was outside. In his neighbourhood, there were often people outside. People who said hello, who smiled. It seemed as vacant as a schoolyard in summer.

As he walked, the boy became conscious of someone looking, watching. Turning around he saw the same three boys who had chased him from the park. They were walking very quickly towards him. And so he did the only thing he could—he ran. He ran blindly down the street. He ran around corners and down more streets whose names he would never remember. He heard their footsteps and thought he could almost feel breathing close behind. Then he stumbled; a skinned knee, a roughed- up elbow and the cold fear of being caught.

Before the boys caught up to where he lay sprawled on the sidewalk, he heard a low-throated growl and a harsh warning bark. Standing between him and his pursuers was Maxie. She growled again and the thugs halted. She held her ground. While the tense standoff continued, a police car pulled slowly around the corner from one of the side streets. Seeing it, the three older boys hoofed it up a driveway and through a backyard to make their escape.

The cruiser stopped beside the boy who was now sitting and rubbing his bloodied knee. The police officer got out. Maxie growled again.

“It’s okay,” she said to Maxie. “I’m on your side.” Then crouching beside the boy she said, “You must be Ronnie.”

“My name is Ronald!” he said as defiantly as his bruised ego would allow.

“And you,” she said addressing the dog, “must be Maxie.”

Hearing her name and smelling the offered treat, Maxie became the officer’s next best friend.

“I found your knapsack in the park,” the officer said. “Do you think maybe it’s time to take it home?”

As tears stung his eyes, Ronald nodded in agreement. His desire for adventure was tapped out. The officer led him to the front seat of the patrol car. His need to run away forgotten, he looked in awe at all the equipment, the radio and the computer. The officer then opened the back door and Maxie, practiced at car rides and now at ease, hopped in. n