He Followed Me Home

When I was a kid, my mom let me pick out a dog at the animal shelter. I named him Monkey, because he was scruffy and gangly and made weird noises. Mom said he'd been abused as a puppy and that was why he was strange, but that made him special. He went everywhere with me until he was too old, and then he would sit at home waiting for me to come back.

I couldn't help but think of Monkey as I caught sight of a familiar jacket on familiar shoulders. Scruffy, abused, waiting for someone to come and help him. But who was he waiting for?

"Hey," I said quietly.

He barely looked at me. "They don't know what to do with me," he sighed. "And I don't know what to do with myself."

That's when I knew I'd found my best friend. Friendly, loyal, much less likely to dig holes in the yard or chew on my shoes, and desperately in need of someone to take him home. "Come on," I offered.

He followed me home. I think I'll keep him.