It all started with a dog. My son, Andy, had been begging for one for months. Every day, same request: “Dad, can we please, please get a dog?” He was relentless, and I was getting close to caving in. But he also had to convince Kelly, my wife.
Finally, after a lot of talking, my wife agreed. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “Fine, but only if it’s small and presentable. We’re not getting some big, sloppy mutt.”
I tried not to laugh. That was just her way. She grew up in a house where everything had its place, where pets were clean, polite little additions to a picture-perfect life. A poodle or a Yorkie? Sure. But a scrappy, muddy dog? Definitely not.
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, big brown eyes filled with sadness. Andy knelt beside her. “She needs us,” he whispered.
I sighed, ruffling his hair. “All right, let’s bring her home.”
My wife’s face fell. “She’s scruffier than I pictured.”
That night, Daisy wouldn’t settle. My wife sighed, getting up to give her a treat. Hours later, I woke up—Andy’s bed was empty. Panic surged. Then, soft scratching at the door.
Daisy was back. But where was Andy?
