I passed by a three-legged dog on my way home from work yesterday and frightened the owner more than a little bit when I asked, with tears in my eyes, if she had a minute to tell me about him. She shared that his name is Buddy and that he had his front leg removed after getting hit by a car when he was five. He was walking the day after surgery and taking the stairs by himself a short time after that. He's eleven now and sweet as hell and his owner, probably feeling equal parts pity and terror, gave me a website to visit, some Instagram hashtags to search and then passed along her phone number in case I have questions as we enter similar territory with Patches.
I called Bevan the moment Leslie (that's the name of Buddy's person) and I parted ways feeling, for the first time in days, like there was air in my lungs.