Daisy wagged her tail like she understood. Her big eyes locked on mine, hopeful.
I couldn’t even respond.
I mean, what was I supposed to do—walk her down the street like she was some kind of fashion statement? “Oh yes, this is Daisy. She’s… um… unique.” What would I say when friends asked what breed she was?
“She’s a rescue,” I’d have to admit. The word tasted like vinegar on my tongue.
I plastered on a smile for my son’s sake, but my thoughts were racing. We’d agreed on something refined, something proper. Not this shaggy, oversized mutt that probably shed all over the furniture and smelled like wet socks when it rained.