The dog was maybe eight years old. Tumor the size of a softball on her belly. Barely breathing.
I’d stopped to check my bike when I heard whimpering. Years of riding, never seen anything like it.
This beautiful dog, dying, abandoned, but still wagging her tail when she saw me. The collar had two notes.
The first about putting her down. The second was different. Child’s handwriting. Crayon on notebook paper.
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