The first two nights in the car were an adventure. By the third night, reality set in. I had spent my last few dollars on gas and a cheap bag of generic dog food from a discount store.
“It’s just for a few days, buddy,” I whispered, pouring the colorful, low-quality pebbles into his bowl.
That was the mistake that broke me.
By morning, Barnaby was sick. His skin flared up, angry and red. He was scratching so hard he was bleeding. He wouldn’t eat. He just curled up in the footwell, letting out low, miserable whimpers.
I sat in the driver’s seat of that freezing car and sobbed. Not for me. For him. I was starving, but seeing him suffer because of my incompetence felt like a physical blow to the chest. I was failing the only creature who loved me unconditionally.
