barged into my yard. Her little girl clung to her, crying, with a red scratch across her stomach.

I was in shock. My dog, Rocky, was calmly sitting near the flowerbed, tail wagging. We’ve had him for almost five years—he’s gentle, quiet, and has never shown a hint of aggression. But the woman had already called the cops and was demanding he be put down.

Trying to keep my cool, I said, “Rocky wouldn’t hurt anyone. We’ve got a security camera—let’s check the footage.”

We went inside and played the video. It showed Rocky lying peacefully near the bench. The girl walked over to him, holding something metallic. Then—click—a jolt of electricity. Rocky yelped and bolted. The girl stumbled backward and hit the ground.

A stun gun. That scratch wasn’t a bite—it came from the fall.

The woman’s face went pale. “That’s not hers…” she murmured.

One of the officers asked, “Then where’d she get it?”

She sank to the floor. “My husband keeps one in the car… she must’ve grabbed it.”

The room went quiet. Rocky wandered in slowly, looking at everyone like he was making sure we were okay.

He’d just been falsely accused of something serious—and yet, he stayed calm and kind. Honestly, he handled the whole thing better than the adults did.