I followed the sound. There, chained to the bridge support beam, was a Golden Retriever. Beautiful dog. Well-groomed. Collar with tags. But thin. Too thin. And that tumor. God, that tumor. Size of a softball hanging from her belly.
She saw me and started wagging. Not the excited wag of a healthy dog. The grateful wag of something that thought it was going to die alone.
She tried to stand. Couldn’t. The tumor was too heavy. But she kept wagging, kept looking at me with those brown eyes that said “I’m a good dog. I’m a good dog.”Continue reading…
