Alone at home after school, David drops a treat the size and shape of a pencil eraser on the shaggy rug, then calls his best friend, Bear. A black nose sniffs circles around the bison pellet. Nostrils shiver like fish gills.

David wiggles his toes and clutches the couch cushion. He holds himself back from helping his dog find the treat because his dog has to learn things or he might end up like the dog that knocks over the neighbor’s trash can and poops in Grandma’s geraniums or the dog on the side of the road with one very open eye.

David’s dog, Bear, is safe inside for now but not as good a sniffer as other dogs. Bear loops around the pellet, missing it by several inches as he sweeps back and around. Now Bear’s closer to the spot David once dropped a PB&J and got lectured about using plates and eating at the table instead of in front of the TV where Jaime, who’s hardly ever home, was playing Xbox.

David squashes two pellets in his pocket. His fingers stink like bison — that’s a kind of bovine — but not buffalo according to the internet where he looked because it’s good to know things. He knows bison tastes salty and dirty like hard playdough, and he spits out the treat because yuck and Bear looks so sad like, That was supposed to be my treat.

Bear stops sniffing and licks David’s hand. He still hasn’t found the first treat David dropped. What’s wrong with Bear?

Bear might have a stuffy nose or maybe he learns differently like David and maybe Bear will still be the best dog and David will get to go back to the regular classroom where his friends are instead of the weird room that smells like fish sticks and has soft toys and kids he wants to like him but is afraid to play with and posters of animals and nature and children smiling. In that room David doesn’t smile. He watches the poster of the short-legged dog leaping over the gate. He’s supposed to believe the courageous dog’s short legs could propel it over the tall gate, but it’s not real. The dog is frozen over the gate, and it looks like it is smiling. David knows the dog is not smiling but panting. Like the terrible time Bear ate poison. Bear smiled and smiled until his muzzle frothed like toothpaste — thank goodness the vet made him throw up — and now maybe Bear is searching and searching and sniffing and sniffing but he’s never going to eat.

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