His name was Sherlock, a ball of scruff and matted fur and the kind of eyes my dad always called “soul eyes” – those dogs that just look at you with their hearts pouring out. Overflowing with a purity of love and trust that I’ve seen very few humans have. I almost don’t know how to respond to that kind of look. “How can you look at me with so much affection? You don’t even know me!!”
But there he was, adoring and perfect. Sherlock, the West Highland Terrier, eager for his permanent home.
As we approached, his tail picked up windshield wiper speed, thumping back and forth. His baby pink tongue sticking out of his mouth, the goofiest smile that made me want to scoop him up forever, and if we could have, we would. We would have adopted Sherlock on the spot. Our little family of three…
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