He had been my father’s closest friend for nearly forty years.
And he was lifting my dog into his truck.
“Hey!” I shouted, running across the lawn. “What are you doing?”
My golden retriever, Rusty, hung calmly in Walter’s arms. At thirteen years old, Rusty was half-blind, stiff with arthritis, and moved slower every week. I had spent months rearranging my life around protecting him from pain.
Walter gently settled Rusty onto the seat and closed the door before turning toward me.
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