When I pulled that skinny, limping dog from behind a dumpster, I thought the hard part was over. Then came the message: “That’s our Reef! He’s been missing for months!”
I should’ve been thrilled. But when we met, Reef didn’t run to them. He growled. Just once. Just enough.
The woman’s face fell. Her husband asked if this was normal. But Reef—if that was even his name—had been silent until that moment. Something wasn’t right.
That night, I zoomed in on their photo. The markings were close, but not exact. The shelter mentioned another dog like him picked up nearby weeks earlier. So I drove to a crumbling duplex and met a grieving grandfather.
His grandson’s dog, Bullet, had disappeared after the boy’s death. The people who’d claimed Reef? Strangers. Maybe looking to sell him.
Bullet knew. That’s why he hesitated. That’s why he growled.
Today, he’s curled up beside me, his tail thumping when I say his real name. We visit the old man sometimes—the last link to the boy he loved. And every day, this broken, beautiful dog reminds me: love doesn’t forget.
