A few mornings later, I woke up. The house was too quiet. The gate to the yard was open, just a crack. My blood ran cold. I raced outside, calling his name. NOTHING. Panic clawed at my throat. I knew. I KNEW who had done it. She lured Max from my yard while I was asleep. The audacity, the betrayal, the sheer, ruthless cruelty of it. I got in my car, my hands shaking on the wheel, my vision blurred with rage.
I burst through her front gate, the flimsy latch no match for my fury. Max was there, tied to a porch post, whimpering. My relief was instant, quickly replaced by a simmering anger. “You manipulative BITCH!” I yelled, reaching for his leash. She stood by the door, arms crossed, defiant. “He’s better off here,” she snarled back.
I yanked on Max’s leash, pulling him towards me. He let out a small whine. As I crouched to comfort him, my hand brushed against something cold on his collar. A small, tarnished metal tag. Not Max’s usual one, the custom tag with his name and my number. This was a plain, generic tag. And then I saw it. A tiny, almost faded scar near his ear. And the shape of his snout… Max, my Max, had a distinct black patch over his left eye, like a pirate. This dog… this dog didn’t have it. My breath hitched. NO.
