On an inauspicious March day in 2005, I wandered in to my local Petcetera. I walked out a new woman, reformed by the soulful gaze of a skinny, mangy puppy sitting with eyes full of heart.
You know those smart people who pick up long lost paintings by masters from dumpsters, seeing past the banged up frames and layers of soot? I have the dog version of that.
My dog is one of a kind. She’s basically outsider art.
I love her unconditionally. But this dog, the dog I love and dote on, the dog that spends hour upon hour with me out in the yard, the dog who has her own spot on the couch, the dog who has unchallenged first right of occupancy to prime real estate in front of every window, this dog has a secret problem.
Like a ninja in the night we don’t see her come and go, we only know where she has been by the little clues she leaves behind.