The Summer I Learned to Bear It

The camp brochure promised "life-changing experiences," but it failed to mention the part where my cabin mate Chad's service dog—a Golden Retriever named Bear—would become my responsibility during Chad's asthma attack.

"Just take him for a swim," the camp counselor had said, pressing the leash into my sweaty palm. "He loves the water. It'll calm him down."

Bear tugged me toward the lake like he knew exactly where he was going. I dragged my feet. I hadn't gone swimming since fifth grade, when I'd accidentally mooned half my class trying to climb out of the pool in my too-loose trunks. The nickname "Moon Boy Marcus" had followed me until middle school, and I wasn't eager to relive that trauma.

But Bear whined, and I couldn't say no to those eyes.

The lake was quieter than I expected—most kids were at the rope swing or the craft shack. Bear waded in confidently, and I followed, sneakers sinking into mud. The water hit my waist, then my chest. I dipped under, and for a second, panic seized me.

Then Bear swam past, his golden fur slick like a seal, and he looked back like, *You coming or what?*

Something shifted. I was fourteen years old, and I was letting a dog show me up.

I started swimming. Badly at first, all flailing limbs and splashing. But Bear didn't judge. He just swam circles around me, occasionally nudging my hand with his wet nose when I drifted too deep.

By the time we made it back to shore, I was exhausted, freezing, and weirdly proud.

Chad was waiting at the dock, inhaler in hand. "Bear likes you," he said, scratching the dog's ears. "He usually hates new people."

"Yeah, well," I said, wringing out my shirt. "We bonded."

"Hey," Chad said, almost shy. "Some of us are going night swimming tomorrow. You should come."

I looked at Bear, who was vigorously shaking water all over both of us, and grinned.

"Yeah," I said. "I think I will."