When I was in third grade, my family got some Pomeranians. A sister and brother, who we named Bear and Bailey. Bear was uncannily bearlike, apart from the fact that he was the size of a deflated soccer ball. Bailey was chosen arbitrarily.

They would run away all the time and it drove my mother nuts. Once, someone left the front door open and they got out, again. I blamed my friend Jennifer (who I was never overly fond of), but at the time I think it might have been my fault and I honestly don’t even know now. At any rate, my mom was sick of chasing after them and decided if they didn’t want to live here then fine, they wouldn’t have to. We didn’t try to find them.

Sometime that week, though, I went to get the mail, one of my favorite chores. Box number 13, my lucky number. This guy was at the mail box and as I was an annoyingly friendly eight year old, I asked him if he had seen our dogs, they were this big and named Bear and Bailey.

He said no, but he hoped that I’d find them soon. He told me that if the pound finds them, they only wait three days for the owners to find them before they’re euthanized. I was unperturbed and asked him what that meant. Not exactly kindly, he told me they would put them to sleep. This I understood and ran home to confirm it with my mother.

She was very quick to say that was not the case, but I figured she was only lying in order to protect me. I begged her to go to the pound to get them back, but part of me knew it was too late. They’d been missing five days at that point.

My mother didn’t go to the pound and while I went on to believe that my dogs were dead, I realize now that they were probably adopted pretty quickly by someone who was willing to train them. Probably they didn’t keep them together though. Poor dogs. Mean man.


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