I recognized the way the dog moved, the way he sat, the cautious, hopeful look.
A memory hit me so fast I actually grabbed the doorframe.
We had a dog before. Doblo.
He’d been John’s dog.
Scruffy mutt with big eyes and no sense of personal space.
When I got pregnant, we moved his bed out of the nursery. There was a dog door in that room that went to the backyard.
After John died, somewhere in the chaos, Doblo got out. A friend had left the gate open.
By the time I noticed, he was gone.
I put up posters. Called shelters. Posted online.
Eventually, I told myself somebody else had taken him in.
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