“I prepaid for his check-up at the clinic downtown. This food is for the dog. Do not eat it. Do not sell it. If you want to feed yourself, you need to become the man this dog thinks you are.”
I fed Barnaby right there on the porch. Watching him eat, relief washing over his shaggy face, something inside me shifted. The rage at my mother evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.
I had to get him to the clinic. But when I turned the key in the ignition, the engine sputtered and died. Out of gas.
The clinic was four miles away.
“Alright, Barnaby,” I said, opening the door. “Let’s walk.”
He was weak, and halfway there, he sat down, refusing to move. He weighed nearly sixty pounds. I didn’t think; I just picked him up.
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