“I told you I’d come back,” he said, pressing his forehead to the bars.
Buddy licked his fingers through the gaps.
“He’s been waiting for you,” she said. “He refused to eat unless someone sat with him.”
I looked at my son.
At the boy who had given half his lunch without being asked. Who had shown up every day. Who had taught a broken, hungry dog that kindness could be counted on.
And I understood something then.
This wasn’t just about a dog.
This was about who my son was becoming.
Two weeks later, Buddy came home with us.
He sleeps at the foot of Daniel’s bed now. His ribs don’t show anymore. His tail wags without fear.
But now, when I tuck in the note, I add one more line.
“Thank you for being you.”
