"Is that a dog?"
My dad stopped the truck abruptly in the middle of the road and pointed toward something under a mailbox. It was dark, and the storm had just settled. But through the streaky windshield, I could just barely make out what appeared to be a ball of black fur and a couple of tiny eyeballs glimmering in the distance.
"It sure looks like it," I said, as I opened the door and hopped out to investigate.
I scooped up the little dog and held her in my arms. She had delightful puppy breath, and her paws, which were too big for her body, smelled like Fritos. Her fluff was jet black, but for a thin line of white down her chest and one white paw. She was maybe 6 pounds, and she was scared. I felt her heart beat fast as her paws dug into my shoulder. She cried and nibbled at my ear with her needle-sharp puppy teeth.
I cradled her in my chest and climbed back into the truck.
It was June 2009, and I had just finished my sophomore year at Tennessee. I was home in Indiana for the summer, and my dad and I had been on our way to grab some take-out. My mom instantly objected the moment I walked through her front door carrying a puppy.
"Absolutely not," she declared, pointing to the two Yorkies who had just rushed to the foyer to sniff the new arrival. "We cannot have another dog."
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