The dog looked about eight years old. She had a tumor as big as a softball on her belly and was breathing shallowly.Someone had left a bowl of water and her favorite toy—a stuffed duck, worn from years of love. But it was the second note tucked inside her collar that changed everything.
I had parked my bike to make a repair when I heard whimpering. In all my years riding, I’d never encountered anything like it.
There she was: beautiful, sick, abandoned—but still wagging her tail at me. Her collar held two notes.
The first note spoke of putting her down. The second was in childlike handwriting, written in purple crayon:
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