An old man named Luke entered the Humane Society alone. He walked with a limp and wore a stern expression.
“Heard about the Golden Retriever pups,” he said. “Mind if I see them?”
The assistant brought him back to the kennels. The puppies yipped and cried as expected, crawling over one another and jumping about clumsily. Half of them already wore yellow tags, marking their future owners.
Out of the corner of his eye, Luke spotted a dog two kennels over. The mutt was a bit older — probably at least eight or nine, judging by his gray snout. He was somber. He didn’t bark. Instead, he gazed at the man, almost in deep contemplation.
Luke approached him. “What’s your name?” he asked. The dog tilted his head ever so slightly. The man glanced at the tag on the door: Paws.
“How’d an old guy like you end up in a place like this? Guess you could probably ask the same of me.”
Luke dropped down to a knee as Paws walked closer.
“Hey,” Luke called over to the assistant, “what’s his story? I think I’d like to take him home and tell him mine.”
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