I walked the last two miles carrying him in my arms. My arms burned, my back screamed, and I was sweating through my dirty t-shirt. I looked like a vagrant. People crossed the street to avoid me.
I finally collapsed onto the bench outside the vet clinic, gasping for air, Barnaby safe in my lap.
A truck pulled up to the curb. A heavy-set man in dusty work boots got out. He’d been driving slowly behind me for the last block. He looked at me, then at the dog.
“That’s a heavy dog, son,” the man said.
“He’s sick,” I managed to wheeze out. “He needed to get here.”
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