Brayden Collins - Short Story - Mason County
Item
Title
Brayden Collins - Short Story - Mason County
Description
I am a Patriot
Abstract
My name is Patriot, but it hasn't always been that name. I am the most smart, handsome, protective, and courageous friend I know. Well, that is what my best friend tells me anyway. My eyes are blue, like ice on a snowy winter's day. I have
medium-length, rough-coated, brown, and black fur. What? You didn't know? I am a border collie and l am a patriot.
Today is a scorching 98 degree July summer day, and I am starting to regret
having such handsomely thick fur. I can hear myself panting loudly like the day I saw a cunning squirrel. He was trying to invade the homeland. "Attack!" I barked as I ran
toward the intruder like a 852 fighter jet. I snap out of this thought from the
instrumentation sounds blaring "O say can you see by the dawn's early light what so
pro1Jdly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,_," l open my eyes and jump to
attention. I can see my boy standing in the middle of the yard. It was like I was seeing Francis Scott Key from the war of 1812. He is standing tall, chest out, right-hand raised to the corner of his eye, and proudly he pays tribute to those who are fighting and has fought for our freedom. I quickly march toward him, and lift myself to stand on two legs. I stand tall, chest out, right-paw raised, and I pay tribute to those who are fighting and have fought for our freedom. I glance toward my boy because he makes me so proud. The national anthem ends, and I immediately drop down on all fours. Now, let me tell you about my boy. He is tall, slender, smart, handsome, and
courageous. He has dark brown fur that is slick to his head. I find him quite
funny-looking because his entire body is bald. He kind of looks like one of those fancy 4h goats. The ones where they shave their body, except their head. I think they are
called show goats. He has blue eyes that match the color of my dog bowl. His name is Brayden, but that hasn't always been his name.
"Come on, Boyl" calls Brayden.
I.1:>ark, "Race you!" and I immediately take off running tC>ward& the wood&. I look 1:>ac:k only to see Brayden gaining on me.
Brayden yells, "Bang! Bang!"
I stop and fall over dead. The second of many tricks that I was taught. My boy Brayden army crawls over to me to scratch my belly. Oh how I love it. He leans into me.
"It is 1965 and we_ are_ in Vie_tnam," whispers Brayden.
I growl, "Operation Rolling Thunder!"
We both leap to our feet and into the jungle. Quietly, we sneak through the tall trees and high grasses. We are careful not to be spotted by the enemy. The North Vietnamese are communists and we are there to help the South Vietnamese, ordered by President Johnson.
"Look over there," sneered Brayden.
"Grrr, The Enemy!" I growled.
Brayden gestures for me to stay low until the soldiers move passed.
"Let's flank them," I barked.
Brayden remarked, "We need to flank them."
I snapped, "That's what I said!"
I stayed put as I watched Brayden climb the tall mountain in front of us.
It seemed to take forever. I found myself drifting off and dreaming about when I was a young pup. Brayden wasn't always my boy. I had another boy, but he was a much bigger boy. He had a little more fur than Brayden on his body, but he was
funny-looking too. You see, my big boy's name was Sergeant. Well, that was what everyone called him. One day he explained to me that he had to leave and fight some very bad people in a place called Afghanistan.
"Take care of the homeland 9-11," informed Sergeant.
I whimpered, "Yes Sir!" and began licking the single salty tear that ran down his face. Months went by and two uniformed servicemen holding a neatly folded flag knocked on the door. Sergeant was killed in battle. I howled for weeks and would search for Sergeant through the window. On a crisp morning, I spot a boy walking to school. I pressed my warm wet nose to the window to get a closer look. He looked my way and stopped. I watched him stand tall, chest out, and raise his right-hand to his eye. He saluted the American flag that had been lowered to half staff several weeks ago. For the first time in a long time, I could feel my tail start to wag again. I watched as the boy turned and continued walking past the house. I spent the next several months watching the boy stop and salute the flag in my yard. My mind began to race, and everyday I looked forward to seeing him. "What was his name?" I thought. I will call him Patriot. Eventually, I made my way to the yard so I could introduce myself. As Patriot walked closer, I could feel the excitement bursting inside. My tail was wagging so fast, I thought it would grab wind, and I would hover like a helicopter. Patriot stopped as I knew he would. When he went to salute, I lifted myself up on two legs and saluted. The first of many tricks I was taught. Patriot asked me my name and I barked, "9-11."
"What's your name?" I barked
"My name is Brayden," he said.
I repeated, "Brayden. Hmmm."
He then asked, "Who taught you to salute?"
"You did," I replied anxiously. Brayden knelt down beside me, rubbing behind my ears as I jumped au over him. began licking his face. Ha giggled uncontrollably. l was the happiest dog in the world. Brayden had to continue to school, but he told me he would see me soon. After school was over, I could see Brayden walking toward me in the distance. I couldn't control myself. I began to run at him like a Boeing X-37. Just as I get to him he yells, "Bang! Bang!" I plow straight into him.
He laughs and says, "You are supposed to fall over and play dead."
"I will remember next time!" I barked.
Brayden announced, "I'm going to call you Patriot."
"Patriot. Patriot. I like that name," I confessed.
Finally, I awaken from my slumber to the sound of my boy Brayden.
He was yelling, "Attack!"
"No one messes with my boy," I growled.
I run toward the enemy barking, growling, and snapping. "The enemy is eradicated," I growl.
Brayden declares, "The war is over!"
I/Ve end our game by honoring those who lost their lives. I watch as Brayden lowers the flag to half staff. We stand tall, chest out, and salute. I look toward my boy, Brayden, and I am so proud. He is a patriot.
medium-length, rough-coated, brown, and black fur. What? You didn't know? I am a border collie and l am a patriot.
Today is a scorching 98 degree July summer day, and I am starting to regret
having such handsomely thick fur. I can hear myself panting loudly like the day I saw a cunning squirrel. He was trying to invade the homeland. "Attack!" I barked as I ran
toward the intruder like a 852 fighter jet. I snap out of this thought from the
instrumentation sounds blaring "O say can you see by the dawn's early light what so
pro1Jdly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,_," l open my eyes and jump to
attention. I can see my boy standing in the middle of the yard. It was like I was seeing Francis Scott Key from the war of 1812. He is standing tall, chest out, right-hand raised to the corner of his eye, and proudly he pays tribute to those who are fighting and has fought for our freedom. I quickly march toward him, and lift myself to stand on two legs. I stand tall, chest out, right-paw raised, and I pay tribute to those who are fighting and have fought for our freedom. I glance toward my boy because he makes me so proud. The national anthem ends, and I immediately drop down on all fours. Now, let me tell you about my boy. He is tall, slender, smart, handsome, and
courageous. He has dark brown fur that is slick to his head. I find him quite
funny-looking because his entire body is bald. He kind of looks like one of those fancy 4h goats. The ones where they shave their body, except their head. I think they are
called show goats. He has blue eyes that match the color of my dog bowl. His name is Brayden, but that hasn't always been his name.
"Come on, Boyl" calls Brayden.
I.1:>ark, "Race you!" and I immediately take off running tC>ward& the wood&. I look 1:>ac:k only to see Brayden gaining on me.
Brayden yells, "Bang! Bang!"
I stop and fall over dead. The second of many tricks that I was taught. My boy Brayden army crawls over to me to scratch my belly. Oh how I love it. He leans into me.
"It is 1965 and we_ are_ in Vie_tnam," whispers Brayden.
I growl, "Operation Rolling Thunder!"
We both leap to our feet and into the jungle. Quietly, we sneak through the tall trees and high grasses. We are careful not to be spotted by the enemy. The North Vietnamese are communists and we are there to help the South Vietnamese, ordered by President Johnson.
"Look over there," sneered Brayden.
"Grrr, The Enemy!" I growled.
Brayden gestures for me to stay low until the soldiers move passed.
"Let's flank them," I barked.
Brayden remarked, "We need to flank them."
I snapped, "That's what I said!"
I stayed put as I watched Brayden climb the tall mountain in front of us.
It seemed to take forever. I found myself drifting off and dreaming about when I was a young pup. Brayden wasn't always my boy. I had another boy, but he was a much bigger boy. He had a little more fur than Brayden on his body, but he was
funny-looking too. You see, my big boy's name was Sergeant. Well, that was what everyone called him. One day he explained to me that he had to leave and fight some very bad people in a place called Afghanistan.
"Take care of the homeland 9-11," informed Sergeant.
I whimpered, "Yes Sir!" and began licking the single salty tear that ran down his face. Months went by and two uniformed servicemen holding a neatly folded flag knocked on the door. Sergeant was killed in battle. I howled for weeks and would search for Sergeant through the window. On a crisp morning, I spot a boy walking to school. I pressed my warm wet nose to the window to get a closer look. He looked my way and stopped. I watched him stand tall, chest out, and raise his right-hand to his eye. He saluted the American flag that had been lowered to half staff several weeks ago. For the first time in a long time, I could feel my tail start to wag again. I watched as the boy turned and continued walking past the house. I spent the next several months watching the boy stop and salute the flag in my yard. My mind began to race, and everyday I looked forward to seeing him. "What was his name?" I thought. I will call him Patriot. Eventually, I made my way to the yard so I could introduce myself. As Patriot walked closer, I could feel the excitement bursting inside. My tail was wagging so fast, I thought it would grab wind, and I would hover like a helicopter. Patriot stopped as I knew he would. When he went to salute, I lifted myself up on two legs and saluted. The first of many tricks I was taught. Patriot asked me my name and I barked, "9-11."
"What's your name?" I barked
"My name is Brayden," he said.
I repeated, "Brayden. Hmmm."
He then asked, "Who taught you to salute?"
"You did," I replied anxiously. Brayden knelt down beside me, rubbing behind my ears as I jumped au over him. began licking his face. Ha giggled uncontrollably. l was the happiest dog in the world. Brayden had to continue to school, but he told me he would see me soon. After school was over, I could see Brayden walking toward me in the distance. I couldn't control myself. I began to run at him like a Boeing X-37. Just as I get to him he yells, "Bang! Bang!" I plow straight into him.
He laughs and says, "You are supposed to fall over and play dead."
"I will remember next time!" I barked.
Brayden announced, "I'm going to call you Patriot."
"Patriot. Patriot. I like that name," I confessed.
Finally, I awaken from my slumber to the sound of my boy Brayden.
He was yelling, "Attack!"
"No one messes with my boy," I growled.
I run toward the enemy barking, growling, and snapping. "The enemy is eradicated," I growl.
Brayden declares, "The war is over!"
I/Ve end our game by honoring those who lost their lives. I watch as Brayden lowers the flag to half staff. We stand tall, chest out, and salute. I look toward my boy, Brayden, and I am so proud. He is a patriot.
Youth(s) First Name and Initial of Last Name
Brayden Collins
Age Division
14
Category
Short Story
County
Mason
