I was on my porch sipping lukewarm coffee when the patrol car rolled up across the street. It parked right in front of Miss Lillian’s place—you know, the one with the peeling shutters and “NO SOLICITING” sign that’s older than me.
I figured it was about the noise complaint from last weekend, or maybe her grandson Damien finally got busted for blasting that bass-heavy nonsense at 3 a.m. But then the officer stepped out—calm, steady, the kind who didn’t need to raise his voice to get things done.
What I didn’t expect was for him to walk straight past the house… and kneel down next to the trash cans.
I squinted. That’s when I saw the tiny flash of movement—a copper-colored puppy, all ribs and trembling legs, wedged between the bins like he’d been hiding there for days.
The officer didn’t hesitate. He scooped the little thing up like it was made of glass, cradling it against his chest. The dog just melted into him. No barking. No struggle. Just this weird, heartbreaking stillness like it had finally stopped running.