When they finished their business, Harley and Bobo trotted out across the cropped and amber hayfield, due west, the sun rising behind them.
Pete and I watched. It was cold and wet. Even still, Pete whimpered and tugged at his lead, desperate to follow the big dogs.
‘Not a chance, buddy,’ I told him. ‘You’re a house dog now.’
Pete’s a pup. A stray pup. A stray pup with an eleven-inch pin and four loops of wire holding his left femur together. Spiral fracture. Hit by a car. We assume.
I paid for the fix. All in all about twelve hundred dollars. Twelve hundred dollars I don’t have.
Pete asked me to.