Asleep. She is. Right now. Or halfway. Yeah. Probably. Half asleep. But then, but then. There’s a knock at the door. And a cardboard box. Somebody left it. On her Welcome mat. A Chihuahua. Tan and white. Tiny, tiny. Six or seven pounds. In a pink harness. Sitting in the box. Looking up at her. Those eyes! Scared, confused, pleading. For what? What? Elaine leans down. There’s a note taped to the box. Missy. That’s her name. This little dog. Ten years old. Sweet, calm, potty-trained. (Or so the note says.) But it’s not signed. This note. Instead. There’s a request. To take care of her. Missy. Because, because. This person can’t. Not anymore. Elaine looks at the dog. Surrounded by toys. A leash. A package of treats. But then, but then. The alarm goes off. Elaine opens her eyes. Oh. It was just a dream. That’s all. A dream. And yet, and yet. You know?
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