Then I saw the collar.
Military issue.
This wasn’t just someone’s neglected pet.
He was a retired Military Working Dog.
The largest Marine, Brock, laughed as the Shepherd flinched.
“Look at him. Supposed to be some badass bomb dog, and he’s scared of a little gunfire.”
One of his friends lit a cigarette.
“Take him to the county shelter. They’ll put him down.”
Brock shrugged.
“I only adopted him because I thought he’d look cool. He’s broken.”
Something inside me went very quiet.
I walked over and knelt beside the dog.
He trembled when I offered my hand.
Then slowly pressed his heavy head into my palm.
A soft whine escaped him.
“Hey.”
I stood.
Brock stared at me.
“Stay away from my dog.”
“He needs water. And shade.”
His friends laughed.
“Listen, sweetheart. I’m a Marine. That’s a military dog. We don’t take orders from soccer moms.”
“He’s a veteran.”
Brock’s smile faded.
“He’s defective equipment.”
“He served.”
“He’s afraid of gunfire.”
“He’s traumatized.”
“He’s going to the pound today.”
I looked down at the Shepherd.
