Your dog, from a pup, followed you everywhere, so it was only in keeping that he follows you through the doors of the shelter, his body slow, his face white, wagging his tail over this new adventure.
The shelter worker has seen it all, so only one glance tells her what is true, as you refuse to look at your dog or at her.
“Moving,” you mumble. “New place, doesn’t take dogs.”
She raises an eyebrow. You look as though you don’t rent.
You leave Buddy behind without a pat or a goodbye.
It’s just too hard for you.