A couple days after my son’s dad got locked up, I went and grabbed his dog from his brother’s house. I never met the dog before, but I told them I was taking it. I figured no one would actually take care of it. She had no food when I got there, and people kinda shrugged like they didn’t know what to do about that.
So whatever. Took the dog. Sun shining, wind blowing in the car as the three of us—me, the dog, the kid—rolled down Broad Street together. They didn’t know that I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t take the dog home. My apartment wouldn’t allow it. I just went to Wendy’s and got my son french fries and the dog mad chicken nuggets. She inhaled them all while they were still steaming hot.
She was so damn pretty I couldn’t stop taking her picture. Light brown and light eyes. The most perfect face I’d ever seen. She was sweet and pretty, and her name was Tazzy. That poor baby. I wanted to save her. I really wanted to keep her. But turned out we were on our way to the shelter.