Robot Helps Max and Lily Deal with Bullies Read online

  Dedication

  To my husband, Rafi.

  Thanks for sharing and encouraging my love of the bully breeds!

  And again, to the fine people at Hinsdale Humane Society.

  Thanks for taking care of so many of the inspiration-dogs for these stories.

  www.redchairpress.com

  Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  Names: Rivadeneira, Caryn Dahlstrand, author | Alpaugh, Priscilla, illustrator.

  Title: Robot helps Max and Lily deal with bullies / Caryn Rivadeneira ; illustrated by Priscilla Alpaugh.

  Description: Egremont, Massachusetts : Red Chair Press, [2020] | Series: Helper hounds | Summary: “Max and Lily are being teased and bullied at school. Their Aunt Eileen calls the Helper Hounds – and soon Robot, an endearing Rottweiler who knows all about bullies, comes to give support”-- Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781634407762 (library hardcover) | ISBN 9781634407793 (paperback) | ISBN 9781634407809 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Rottweiler dog--Juvenile fiction. | Human-animal relationships--Juvenile fiction. | Bullying--Juvenile fiction. | Brothers and sisters--Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Rottweiler dog-- Fiction. | Human-animal relationships--Fiction. | Bullying--Fiction. | Brothers and sisters--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R57627 Ro 2020 | DDC [E]--dc23

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019951547

  Text Copyright © Caryn Rivadeneira

  Copyright © 2021 Red Chair Press LLC

  RED CHAIR PRESS, the RED CHAIR and associated logos are registered trademarks of Red Chair Press LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in an information or retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical including photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission from the Publisher. For permissions, contact [email protected]

  Photos: iStock

  Printed in the United States of America

  0520 1P CGF20

  CHAPTER 1

  A flash of brown rumbled past the window. I stretched my paw and rolled my best tennis ball toward my mouth. I chomped the ball into position and jumped onto the window seat.

  I knew it! The brown truck was right in front of Ms. Chen’s house. The lady in brown shorts ran toward Ms. Chen’s house.

  Ms. Chen! Ms. Chen! I chomped and barked my best warning. But it was no use. Ms. Chen opened the door, smiled, and took a tan box from the woman in brown.

  Noooooo!

  “Robot!” Samuel said. “What’s going on?”

  Samuel put his hand on my back and leaned into the window with me. Ms. Chen waved at the woman in brown shorts.

  “Aah, worried about Ms. Chen, Robot?” Samuel said. “Good thing she has you to help scare away those trucks.”

  Samuel scratched my ears and told me to sit. I sat. He wiggled my best ball out of my mouth and tossed it across the living room.

  “Get it,” Samuel said.

  I sprung off the window seat and got the ball. I plopped it at his feet and sat.

  Samuel turned the ball in his hands. He squeezed it. A crack opened into a wide smile.

  “Sure you don’t want to play with a new ball?” Samuel said.

  I was sure. I stuck my tongue out and wagged my stubby tail.

  Samuel shook his head. He and I had been over this before. Sometimes Samuel would throw me one of the bright yellow tennis balls from my basket. I would go get it. But I never choose those balls. It takes a long time—a lot of chomping and barking and slobber—to get a tennis ball this good.

  Samuel threw the ball. I ran to get it. So I dropped the ball at Samuel’s feet and sat—just waiting for the next throw. I could do this all day. But before he could throw it, Samuel’s phone buzzed. A Helper Hounds Alert!

  Samuel grabbed his phone. He frowned and plopped onto our old green sofa.

  “Oh no,” Samuel said.

  I munched up my ball and crawled onto the sofa next to him. He scratched my head.

  “Two kids—Max and Lily—are being bullied!” Samuel said. “I hate when kids are mean to each other.”

  Samuel used to be a teacher. He’d seen a lot of kids getting bullied.

  Samuel scrolled down on his phone.

  “One kid tells Max he’s skinny and that he could snap him in two. Another girl makes fun of Lily because Max and Lily don’t live with their mom right now. Terrible!”

  I barked my agreement.

  Samuel held my snout in his hands and kissed my nose. He walked to the hallway where my official red Helper Hounds vest and leash hung on hooks. My stubby tail wagged.

  “Can you help these two learn to stop their bullies?” Samuel said.

  My tail wagged so hard my butt shook the sofa cushion. I jumped off.

  I could help! I knew all about dealing with bullies. Two reasons:

  1. I’m a Rottweiler. That means, I’m big and loud. Some people think I’m a bully! But it also means that I was born and bred to protect. My great-great-great-great-great grandparents protected sheep from bully bears and mountain lions in Germany. Today, I protect Ms. Chen and Samuel from the bully brown trucks! I’m always on alert for bullies.

  2. My foster dad and trainer, Paul, was a bully. Well, he was a bully. Now, Paul is the nicest guy ever! But once upon a time, Paul did some really bad bully things—and ended up in prison. That’s where I met him. For real! I’ll tell you all about how we both got there. Let me go back to the beginning.

  CHAPTER 2

  I don’t remember much before the morning of “the raid.” My brothers, sisters, and I climbed over one another to get closer to our mom, Mama Petunia.

  Not that we were ever far away. All seven of us dogs lived in a tiny wire cage at “Flowerbrook Kennels.” It might sound nice, but it wasn’t. The people at Flowerbrook Kennels kept dogs in cages. We ate, peed, pooped, and slept all in the same place.

  At least the puppies got to leave. The mom dogs never did. They spent their whole lives in cages, having puppies and then caring for us. The mom dogs never played or put their paws in the grass. No one ever pet them—or loved them. Well, except for us puppies.

  And then, people from the pet stores would come with big vans and big boxes and move the puppies to their stores. The pet stores sold the puppies for lots of money. At least, that’s what Samuel tells me. So, it’s true.

  Most of the families who bought the puppies from the pet stores never knew how bad it was at Flowerbrook Kennels. The pet stores said puppies came from “good” breeders.

  That was a lie.

  When Samuel and I visit schools and libraries and hospitals, Samuel tells people about the lies pet stores tell.

  “Adopt, don’t shop!” he says. I hope people listen.

  Anyway, my brothers and sisters and I were some of the very last puppies born at Flowerbrook Kennels. Turns out, one of the pet store workers felt bad about getting puppies from such a terrible place and called the police.

  The police called the humane society. And one day, police and animal rescue volunteers came rumbling onto the farm with cars and trucks and vans. The people at Flowerbrook Kennels didn’t use cars so we knew something was up. We all had our snouts through the wires in the cages to sniff the air.

  A woman with a sweet smile and soft voice came up to our cage and put my siblings and me in a big blanket. She gently set us in a clean, warm crate in the back of a van. Another man put my mom in a blanket and held her on his lap up front. The man called my mom “Sweet Little Mama Petunia.” Mama Petunia stopped crying when he said that.

  We all stopped crying and
barking when we got to our new foster family’s house. A foster family, our van driver told us, steps in to take care of you when your parents can’t.

  “And you need to let your Mama Petunia get some rest,” she said.

  Our foster mom came out to the van to get us. She hugged and kissed Mom all over and told her she’d make her “better.” I didn’t know how Mom could get any better (she was pretty great already). But the rescue people seemed worried about her. Mom had trouble standing up.

  At our new house, Mom got to spend lots of time on a cushy round bed in the kitchen. Julia, the nice woman at our foster home, gave her bits of chicken and bowls of fresh water. Living her whole life at the terrible kennel made Mom sick. So, Julia tucked Mom under big blankets—with her very own teddy bear!

  We got teddy bears too. And we got stuffed llamas and squeaky pigs and tug ropes. But the best thing we got were tennis balls. I fell in love right away. The smell. The color. The squish as I tried to sink my paws and puppy teeth into it! I loved it all.

  Julia noticed how much I loved to chase the ball. As I grew, she would teach me to “sit” and go “down”—and used the ball as my reward. I would do anything for that ball!

  I loved living with our foster family. But we didn’t stay there too long. They needed to get Mom feeling better—and to help us find new homes. The good news was that lots of people wanted to adopt Rottweiler puppies.

  The even better news was that Julia thought I would make a good “service dog.” I didn’t know what that was, but if it meant more tennis balls, I was in!

  So one day, Julia brought me to Mom, who lifted her head and sniffed me all over. She gave me one big lick to say goodbye. She was a good mom. I was going to miss her. But dogs like me are meant to go off into the world—and do big things!

  So I went to prison. Where I would learn to be a good dog. A service dog!

  CHAPTER 3

  Paul and I met in the big fenced-in yard. I liked Paul right away. He smelled like sweat and ink. His arms and neck were decorated in blue stripes and squiggles. His bald head shined in the sun.

  But I wasn’t sure he liked me! At least, not when he first squatted down to meet me.

  “Paul,” Julia said. “Meet Robot.”

  “You’re a little fuzzy guy now,” Paul said. “But soon you’ll be a big dude like me!”

  I sure hoped so!

  “I hear you like to play with tennis balls,” Paul said. He reached into his sweatshirt and got a… tennis ball! My stubby tail shook my whole body.

  “You think you can learn to be a service dog?” Paul said.

  He held the ball above my head. I looked up to see it. My bottom went down.

  “Good boy!” Paul said.

  “Good boy!” Julia said.

  Paul and Julia pet me and talked for a while. Then, Julia kissed me on the snout and said good-bye. It wasn’t very sad. I liked this guy Paul.

  Paul scooped me up into his stripy arms and kissed me on the head. I liked all these kisses. They made me feel like everything was going to be okay. Paul waved one arm around and held me in the other.

  “Welcome to your new home,” Paul said. “Let‘s see what we can make of you. This place sure made something out of me!”

  Paul took me for a walk around the “yard” and then into our room. It was perfect. The room was small, with white walls and one tiny window that let in light and breeze. All along the walls and the door that clicked shut behind us were pictures of puppies, of Paul, and of dogs with badges.

  In the corner next to Paul’s bed was a crate. Paul knelt down and led me toward it. He tapped the inside with his hand. Paul gave me a tiny treat for just watching this!

  I walked in slowly, sniffing everything. I found a soft cushion, a bowl of water, a stuffed pig, a tug rope, and a tennis ball! Heaven.

  Paul and I got to work right away. And then we worked every day!

  My first lesson was to learn the basics—how to sit, go down, rollover, stay, come, heel. Each time I did something right, Paul clicked a clicker and then slipped me a tiny treat.

  But at the end of a great lesson—after I did a bunch of good stuff in a row—Paul would throw me the tennis ball. I’d chase it around toward the door of our room and tumble all over it. Paul would pick it up for me, hold it up in his hands, and then tell me to sit. When I sat, he would throw it again.

  Paul also taught me how to ring a little bell when I needed to “go potty.” I had to learn to use the yard for my bathroom. That was okay. I didn’t like peeing in the rain. But Paul stood next to me so it was okay.

  As the days went by, I got bigger and bigger. And I learned more and more tricks. I got really good. Pretty soon I was able to do all my commands without Paul saying anything. He would just move his hand, and I would sit or stay or heel or sit pretty. Whatever he asked me to!

  By then, a click of the clicker told me I did a good job. A toss of the tennis ball told me our lesson was over and it was time to play!

  Play time was my favorite. Paul said he wished we could be back in his house—the place where he grew up. The place where his mom still lived.

  “I could throw this ball clear through the woods and into the stream,” Paul said. “You and I would have fun splashing in that stream.”

  I was sure we would! But playing in this yard was pretty great too.

  Paul liked to tell stories about his mom’s house and about when he was a boy. He told lots of them at night when the guard yelled, “LIGHTS OUT!” and boom! Our room went dark.

  Paul would stretch on his bed. I would curl up on mine. And Paul would talk and talk and talk.

  Most of the stories were good. I heard all about the stream and the woods and Paul’s brother Bill and his cousins. I heard lots about Paul’s dogs Skipper and Rowdy.

  Some of the stories were sad. They made Paul cry. I hated being stuck in my crate when Paul cried. I wanted to scoot up close to him and stick my snout under his arm to make him laugh. I wanted to lick his face to let him know it was going to be okay.

  But prison has lots of rules. And the rules said I had to stay in my crate at night. So I just listened. One night Paul told me the story of how he got to prison.

  This was one of Paul’s sad stories.

  CHAPTER 4

  Paul was a good kid. Back when he played with Bill and skipped rocks with his dog Skipper. Paul liked to play at the creek because it was quiet. Back home, Paul’s dad yelled a lot. Paul’s dad threw glasses and punched walls. It was scary at home.

  Then one day, Paul’s dad left home. At first, Paul was happy about it. The house was as quiet as the creek. Well, except for his mom’s tears. But then Paul felt sad. Then, he felt mad.

  That’s when Paul started picking on the kids in his class.

  He called kids “fat” and “stupid” and “ugly.” He pushed kids in the hallway. He stole lunches. He made fun of everyone.

  Paul was bigger than the other kids so everyone was scared of him. Nobody stopped him! Being mean made Paul feel powerful. So, he kept being mean.

  One day, a new teacher arrived. The first time Mr. Tuttle saw Paul push another student, Mr. Tuttle told him to stay after.

  Mr. Tuttle grounded him from recess for a week. Then he told Paul he had a choice. Paul needed to decide what kind of person he wanted to be: a bully or a friend. Mr. Tuttle offered to help him learn how to be a friend.

  But Paul just laughed at him. Paul wanted to be a bully.

  As Paul got older, he kept doing mean things. Until one day, when Paul was nineteen, Paul robbed an old man’s house. The man came home early and surprised Paul on the stairs. Paul pushed the man and ran out of the house. The man fell down the stairs, hit his head, and almost died.

  Paul went to prison. That was twenty years ago.

  Don’t worry! The story gets happier.

  Not long after Paul got to prison, Paul got a letter. It was from his old teacher: Mr. Tuttle! Paul couldn’t believe it. Mr. Tuttle said Paul could still mak
e a choice. Paul needed to decide what kind of person he wanted to be: a bully or a friend. If Paul wanted to be a friend, Mr. Tuttle could help.

  This time, Paul didn’t laugh. He cried and cried in his cell. Paul had no friends. Paul didn’t want to be a bully anymore. He was lonely. Paul needed help.

  Paul wrote Mr. Tuttle. They became friends. And Mr. Tuttle helped Paul learn how to be a friend to others. Paul learned how to say nice things to people. Mr. Tuttle helped Paul learn the power of forgiveness and how to apologize. Then, Paul wrote letters to the kids and the adults he had been mean to.

  “I was a bully,” Paul wrote in note after note. “I am sorry. Please forgive me.”

  Some people wrote back and said they forgave him. Some never wrote back. But that was okay. Paul was learning how to be a friend to others and to be a good person in the world.

  Soon, Mr. Tuttle talked to the prison warden (the boss!). He asked if Paul could join the prison’s new dog-training program.

  As it turns out, Mr. Tuttle had retired from teaching and started training rescue dogs. His first dogs became the first Helper Hounds. Mr. Tuttle was a Helper Human!

  Long story short: Paul learned how to train dogs. Before me, Paul helped Labradors and pit bulls, poodles and mutts. They became police dogs, search-and-rescue dogs, sniffer dogs, and service dogs.

  And some dogs even got to become Helper Hounds. Sometimes we became Helper Hounds because we were “too friendly” to be police dogs. Sometimes we became Helper Hounds because our sniffers were not that great. Other times, we became Helper Hounds because we had “something extra.” That’s what Mr. Tuttle called it.

  Mr. Tuttle had an “eye” for this. He saw that “something extra” in Paul way back in seventh grade. Mr. Tuttle showed Paul how to spot the something extra in people and in dogs. And Paul saw it in me.

  That’s when Paul called Mr. Tuttle. “I think Robot is your next Helper Hound,” Paul said.

  Mr. Tuttle came the next week. He put me through some tests. He made lots of loud noises and ran past me. He told me to sit and to stay and then threw my tennis ball. I didn’t move.