What began as a straightforward trip to adopt a family dog ended in panic, secrets, and hard truths. I questioned everything I thought I knew about family and trust that night.
I thought I’d lost my son last weekend.
Everything began with a dog. Andy, my son, had begged for one for months. The same request every day: Dad, could we please acquire a dog?” I was close to giving in to his relentlessness. However, he also needed to persuade Kelly, my wife.
After much discussion, my wife eventually agreed. She said, “Fine, but only if it’s small and presentable,” and she looked me square in the face. We are not getting a large, messy mutt.”
I avoided laughing. That was only her way. She was raised in a home where everything had its place and where pets were tidy, polite additions to a life that was picture perfect. a Yorkie or a poodle? Sure. However, a muddy, scrappy dog? Most certainly not.
Our son, though? He wanted a friend.
The shelter was noisy, full of barking and howling. My son’s eyes lit up as we walked down the rows of kennels. He bounced from one to the next, barely even looking at the little fluffy dogs we were supposed to be considering.
Then, he stopped in his tracks. In front of us was a kennel with the scruffiest dog I’d ever seen.
She was a mess of tangled fur, with big brown eyes and a tail that looked like it had been broken and never quite healed straight. She didn’t bark, just stared back at us, her head tilted like she was curious.
I squatted down next to Andy. “She’s not exactly what your mom wanted, buddy.”
“She needs us,” he insisted, looking up at me with that stubborn glint he got from his mother. “Just look at her. She’s… sad. We could make her happy.”
“All right,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Let’s bring her home.”
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