Four wiggling puppies spilled from the crate into the cage next door, tails waggling and happy yips puncturing the air. I sighed; they’d be snapped up as soon as ‘the people’ came this weekend.
It was a ritual I’d been through so many times I’d lost count. Every Saturday the dog pound opened its doors to ‘the people’, and every weekend many dogs went off to new homes and new lives.
But not me. Apparently I was too old and too sick for anyone want me. But how could I help my age, and this thing I had called diabetes? It wasn’t my fault. Bob, the man I had
lived with for many years hadn’t minded. He called my medication ‘sweetie time’, and pushed it inside a piece of cheese. I knew it was there, of course. But I do like cheese.
Then Bob got sick and went to live with his daughter. That’s when I came here. I missed Bob but hoped I’d find a new home where someone would love me. But that was a long time ago now.
Saturday arrived and in came ‘the people.’ The other dogs barked; standing up, eager to see what was happening. I didn’t bother. No one would want me. They never did.
Sure enough, most people walked past my kennel without a second glance. Those who did stop muttered about my age or illness and walked on. I watched as one by one the puppies were picked up, cuddled, and went off to their new lives.
I closed my eyes, tried to sleep. Then I heard a voice close by.
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