“She’s been talking about it since we got here.”
I smiled.
“Fostering is dangerous.”
The girl looked worried.
“Why?”
“Sombra was supposed to be a foster.”
Her mother laughed.
Sombra wagged his tail.
The girl knelt beside him.
“Can he run now?”
“A little.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes he gets stiff. We manage it.”
“Will his legs ever look normal?”
I looked down.
Sombra’s left hind leg still turned differently.
“Probably not completely.”
She scratched his neck.
“He doesn’t care.”
“No.”
She was right.
Sombra cared about breakfast.
He cared about whether I took too long putting on shoes.
He cared about squirrels.Find Pet Care
He cared about chicken.
He cared deeply about a particular red blanket he had claimed as his own.
He did not care whether his walk looked graceful.
Months continued to pass.
The rescue photograph became something I rarely looked at.
Not because I wanted to forget.
