It snapped me right out of the middle of my dream—a dream where no doorbell had interrupted what Nate and I started last night. With a startled scream, I pushed my comforter back and scrambled to escape from beneath whatever it was. My feet hit the floor and I whirled around with fists at the ready. Whatever had attacked me was still on my bed, thrashing about beneath my thrown covers. I heard a growl, and watched as the face of my attacker emerged from under the comforter. It was snub-nosed, covered in slobber, and its tongue—as if to add insult to injury—proceeded to loll out one side. I groaned. “Brutus!” I took a seat on the edge of the bed and waited for my heart to stop racing. He army-crawled over to me, nudged my elbow with his slimy nose, and whined. A quick glance at my alarm clock proved it was almost nine AM. “Sorry, buddy,” I said and rubbed under one of his ears. “I guess I overslept a bit. Let’s get you outside before you have an accident.” At the word “outside,”
