He was shaking in my arms when I picked him up—tiny, warm, with those big brown eyes like he already knew he was safe. The lady from the shelter barely asked me anything. Said, “First come, first served,” and handed me the papers to sign.
I didn’t even make it halfway home before my phone rang.
A man on the other end said he was “the rightful owner” and that the puppy had been stolen from his yard two days ago. I thought it was some kind of scam until he described the little white patch on the pup’s back leg. Then he sent me a photo. Same dog. Same face.
I pulled over, heart pounding. I looked down at this little bundle who had just started to relax in my lap. He was finally breathing slow. He was finally home.
And then he looked up at me with this trusting little gaze, like he didn’t have a clue his life might change again in the next hour.
I didn’t know what to do. My heart was caught between two sides of a story I didn’t fully understand. What if the guy was lying? But what if he wasn’t?
I told the man I’d call him back.
I needed a moment. I sat in my parked car with the puppy nestled in my jacket, and I cried for a few minutes. Not the big dramatic kind. Just the kind where your shoulders shake and you feel like whatever choice you make, it’s going to hurt.
I called the shelter. They picked up after a few rings. I asked the lady if they verified the dog’s background. She said the pup had been brought in by a volunteer who found him wandering near the edge of town. No chip. No collar. Nothing.
I asked her if anyone reported him missing. She paused. Then she said something that didn’t sit right.
“Well, someone did call yesterday, but they didn’t leave a name. Just said their pup had vanished from the backyard.”
