Page 49 of Letting Go

Instead, I sign. Smile. Nod again.

And then they bring her out and hand her to me.

My puppy.

She’s tiny and warm and already squirming in my arms like her body is too full of life to sit still. Her fur is this buttery mix of cream and soft brown, and her face; oh God, her little face; is a ridiculous cocktail of German Shepherd ears and Pomeranian features.

Oh my God! She’s so adorable, I could just squish her little face.

“She’s a girl,” the woman says. “She’s the last of her litter.”

She keeps licking my chin like I’m already her person. Like she’s chosen me and now I belong to her. And damn it, I’m all in. Fully stupid. Helpless. I’m going to buy her a sweater and matching food bowls and probably start referring to myself as her mom.

We’re halfway to the door when it happens.

This sound, deep and guttural andsad, cuts through the air. A howl, but not the dramatic, theatrical kind. This is grief. This is a sound I’ve made before. In the shower. In my car. Into my pillow at three a.m.

My puppy freezes. And then starts wriggling harder. She’s trying to gettoit. Pushing out these weird little squeaks, like she’s trying to call back.

And before I can tighten my grip, she’s gone.

She slips out of my arms like a bar of soap andbolts.

I run. The volunteer runs. It’s this full-on puppy pursuit across the rooms and around the side of crates until we reach the back. And there, tucked away like a damn secret, is a cage.

Inside is the source of the howl.

A small but clearly an adult dog. Lean, with eyes that are so sad.She’s not barking. Just... watching. Guarded. Raw.

My puppy launches herself at the cage like she’s trying to climb back inside it.

“She’s crying,” I say, dumbly. As if the volunteer can’t see it for herself.

The woman sighs and crouches beside the cage.

“This is Roxy,” she says. “She’s the mom.”

“Ohhh,” I breathe. And God, it makessense.The little face. The howl. The way my baby didn’t just wriggle, sheran.

“She’s the last puppy,” the woman continues, too casually. “Once you get her home, she’ll forget all about her. They all do.”

But I won’t.

I won’t forget this moment. This scene. This dog behind a cage, eyes dull but desperate, watching her baby get taken away like she knows exactly what’s happening and also knows she can’t stop it.

“Does Roxy belong to anyone?” I ask, my voice too soft.

She shakes her head. “No. Found her as a stray. Pregnant. Probably dumped.”

I must have a look on my face, because the volunteer keeps going.

“Youcanadopt her, you know. If you’d like.”

I laugh. Instinct. Immediate. Defensive.

“No,” I say. “That’s crazy. I’ve never even hadonedog, let alone two. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The woman doesn’t flinch. Just stands, brushing off her jeans with the quiet arrogance of someone who’s seen this play out a thousand times.

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