One afternoon, my ten year old son Mason came home clutching a tiny puppy that could barely stand. The little thing was trembling all over, its ribs showing through its fur, yet its tail still gave the softest wag as if it was trying to be brave. Mason said he found it behind the school dumpsters and he begged us to let him keep it.

The problem was our lease. Our landlord had a very clear rule printed in bold red letters. No pets under any circumstances.

Mason’s face crumpled when I reminded him. He looked so crushed that I finally told him we could keep the puppy outside for a short time, just until we figured something out.

That weekend, my husband, Mason, and I worked together in the yard and built a small but beautiful doghouse. Mason named the puppy Buddy, and for the first time in days the little dog looked safe.

But then we ran into trouble. Our neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, spotted Buddy for the first time. She scowled so intensely it looked like her whole face tightened.

“Is that creature yours?” she snapped. “It kept me up all night. Those squeals and yelps were unbearable.”

I kept my voice steady. “I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re only looking after him for a little while.”

A few days later, I came home and found Mason in the yard, kneeling beside a pile of splintered wood, tears streaming down his cheeks. The doghouse we had built was completely wrecked. The roof was smashed in, the walls torn apart like someone had attacked it with a hammer.

Buddy was nowhere in sight.

We searched frantically and after forty very long minutes we found him hiding under a bush near the fence that separated our yard from Mrs. Henderson’s. He was shaking uncontrollably. Next to the bush were broken panels from the doghouse and fresh patches of disturbed soil. I knew instantly who had done it, but I also knew we had no real way to prove anything.

So we swallowed our anger and rebuilt the doghouse that same night. This time we made it sturdier. Mason wouldn’t go to bed until every nail was in place.

Two days later, karma stepped in and handled things far better than we ever could.

I pulled into the driveway after work and saw police cars and a crowd of neighbors gathered around Mrs. Henderson’s yard. Flashing lights reflected off her windows. Something serious had happened.

My husband, Dan, walked toward me looking pale and shaken.

“Babe,” he said quietly, “you won’t believe what happened to Mrs. Henderson.”