I wasn’t even supposed to be out that late. I had just finished a double shift at the diner and missed the last bus, so I figured I’d cut through the back side of Jefferson Avenue. It’s not the safest spot, especially after midnight.
Boarded-up shops, broken glass, old flyers stuck to the pavement with rain and god-knows-what. Then I saw her. A tiny golden retriever puppy, barely bigger than a shoebox, tied to a rusted bench with a frayed rope.
Just sitting there like she didn’t even know she was abandoned. Her little tail wagged once when she saw me, but she didn’t bark or whine—just stared. That broke me.
There wasn’t a bowl, no food, no note. Just that tight collar with a rhinestone name tag hanging off it, half-buried in her fluff. I squatted down, talked to her real gentle, and she let me pet her.
Her paws were cold. She’d been out there a while. When I turned the tag over, I expected a name, maybe a number.
Instead, there was a folded scrap of paper shoved behind the tag. It was wedged in so tight I almost tore it trying to get it out. The handwriting looked rushed, barely legible.
But I could make out one line clearly:
“If you’re reading this, don’t take her to the shelter. They already tried to kill her once.”
That’s when I noticed the little scar under her left ear. Like someone had stitched her up… or worse.
I looked up, suddenly hyper-aware of every shadow on the street. That was no regular abandonment. I scooped her up, my heart pounding.
She shivered against my chest, but didn’t squirm. I wrapped her in my jacket and started walking faster, all the way home. I live in a tiny apartment above Mr.
Lindley’s hardware store. Pets aren’t technically allowed, but I figured I could explain later. Inside, I warmed up a dish of chicken from my fridge and laid out a towel for her.
She ate like she hadn’t seen food in days, licking the bowl until it spun on the tile. I sat on the floor beside her, watching her eyes. She was alert, but something about her seemed too quiet.
Like she’d learned not to make noise. That note wouldn’t leave my head. Who wrote it?
What did they mean by “tried to kill her once”? Was it just some paranoid owner—or something worse? The next morning, I called in sick and took the pup—who I started calling Daisy—to the vet across town.
I didn’t want to go to the one nearby. If someone was looking for her, I didn’t want to make her easy to find. The vet, Dr.
Haynes, scanned for a chip. There was one. But the second she pulled up the info on her screen, she stiffened.
“This dog was listed deceased,” she said quietly, frowning. “Three weeks ago. Brought in by animal control after an ‘incident’ at the city shelter.
But it looks like… someone removed her from the record.”
My mouth went dry. “What kind of incident?”
Dr. Haynes clicked around the screen, then turned it so I could see.
A blurry report described a batch of puppies taken in, then quickly scheduled for euthanasia due to “overcrowding.” One escaped. Daisy. Or whatever her name had been before someone tried to erase her.
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