living room, curled into a tight, trembling ball, was Gable.
Gable wasn’t a Golden Retriever from a puppy calendar. He was a fifty-pound mutt of indeterminate lineage, with wire-hair fur the color of dried mud and a jagged scar across his snout. I’d adopted him from the county shelter three months ago. They told me he had “some baggage.” They didn’t continue reading …
