I never expected to have my six-year-old brother show up at work and completely outshine me—but here we are.

It all started over breakfast. He was firing off questions faster than I could answer:
“Do you drive the police car every day?”
“Do you get to run with your siren on?”
“Do you catch bad guys?”
“Do you eat donuts or is that just on TV?”

By the time I finished my coffee, he’d basically interrogated me. So I gave in.

“Alright,” I said, grinning. “You really want to see what it’s like? Let’s go.”

I made a few calls, checked with my supervisor, and somehow got the green light to bring him along for a few hours. I figured it would be simple. A tour of the station, a peek at the patrol car, maybe let him push the siren button if things were quiet.

But the universe had other plans.

Just as we stepped out for a quick break, a couple of neighborhood kids came running toward us in tears. Their puppy was missing. Parents were trailing behind, frantic and shouting over each other.

“Last seen near the playground!”
“No, he ran this way!”
“He’s afraid of loud sounds!”

It was chaos. Everyone talking at once, pointing in different directions. I was trying to calm things down and get the facts straight when I felt a tiny tug on my sleeve.

It was my brother.

He didn’t say much—just looked up at me with those big, serious eyes and said,
“If I were a scared puppy, I’d hide under the swing set. That’s what I do when I don’t want anyone to find me.”

Honestly, it sounded like a long shot. But at that point, we had nothing to lose. I turned to the parents and shrugged. “Worth a try?”

We all headed over to the old playground, and sure enough—there he was. A tiny, trembling furball wedged right under the swing set, too scared to move.

Before anyone could react, my brother dropped to his knees, pulled a granola bar out of his pocket, and started crawling in like he did this every day. He didn’t rush. Just talked gently, inching closer until the puppy sniffed the air, then cautiously crawled into his arms.

The crowd literally gasped. A few parents clapped. One kid asked if my brother was secretly a dog whisperer.

And me? I just stood there, stunned.

All this time, I’d been showing up every day, trying to be a dependable officer, and here comes my little brother—no badge, no training—solving a mini crisis with nothing but empathy and a snack.

On the way back to the station, I looked over at him, the puppy still curled up on his lap.
“You know,” I said, “I think you might’ve just done more community service in ten minutes than I’ve done all week.”

He just smiled, crumbs on his shirt, puppy hair on his pants, and said,
“Do I get a badge now?”

Maybe not today. But one day? I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a whole department under his command.