One early evening in summer, my older brother George and I headed off to the Little League baseball field where he was going to play a game and I was going to watch. He was eleven and I was eight. I was barefooted and wore shorts and a thin top; he had on his baseball uniform and cap.

When we were three blocks from the baseball field, a dog appeared suddenly, mean and snarling. It headed straight for me. I did the absolute wrong thing – I ran as fast as my legs could take me. Of course, the dog was faster and soon was nipping at my feet. I screamed, knowing I had nowhere to hide since we were in the middle of an open field. I sank down to the ground and huddled into a tight ball. The dog barked and snarled, ready to bite me.

Just then, I heard a loud screech. I peeked out between my arms to see George hurling rocks at the dog. A few more well-aimed shots sent it running off squealing, its tail between its legs.

“Never run!” George snapped as he came over and pulled me up off the ground. He took my hand and held it tight the rest of the way to the baseball field.

I felt so safe just knowing George was close.

George died a few years back, but that feeling of safety has never left me. I sense he’s always right there looking over my shoulder, just in case I need him.

George, as a teenager