That second note terrified me almost as much as the first. Even at fifty-eight years old, after riding for forty-two years, I realized I hadn’t seen everything yet.
It was Tuesday night—actually Wednesday morning, around 3 AM—when I was heading home from visiting my brother in hospice. He had cancer. Another story of loss in a long string of them. I was angry—angry with the world, with God, with the unfairness of it all.
A soft, desperate whimper.
I followed the sound and found that golden dog chained to a support beam. She was thin, gently trembling, struggling to stand. The tumor weighed her down. But when she saw me, she wagged—slowly, gratefully.
A bowl of water sat nearby, still fresh. A blanket. Her duck toy. And taped to the beam: a handwritten note:
“Her name is Daisy. She has cancer. The vet wants $3,000 for surgery but says she might die anyway. I can’t afford it. I don’t have $400 for an euthanasia either. Please, whoever finds her, don’t let her suffer. I’m sorry, Daisy. You deserved
better.”
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