Page 32 of 1 Last Shot

Normally, I would assume it's someone homeless digging through the trash, but something is whispering in my subconscious to investigate further. Taking my knife out of my pocket and holding it firmly by my side, I take one, then two steps closer to the dumpster.

And that's when I hear it. A whining sound.

Fuck, that's not a human sound.

I rush the last few steps and throw the lid off the dumpster, then grab my phone so I can turn my flashlight on and shine it around the piles of trash.

There. I think that one moved.

I don't even hesitate. I vault over the metal side and land on top of a bag of something, and thankfully it's firm enough that I can keep my balance as I reach for the bag that's now very clearly wiggling.

It's bigger up-close than it looked at first. And when I pull it into my arms, it's definitely heavier than I thought it would be. Deciding that the easiest way to get it out of the dumpster is in the bag, I tighten my grip on the tied top of it and haul it over the side with me.

Landing in the dirt with a heavy thump, I gently place the bag on the ground, noticing for the first time that the bag stopped squirming as soon as I grabbed it. I hurry to untie the top, suddenly fearing the worst.

The dog lets out a single whimper when I free it from its prison. I back up to give it some space, knowing that a scared dog is very likely to bite.

But he doesn't snap at me. He barely even growls, he just… glares.

He's an adult dog, about fifty pounds, and his color is dark enough that it looks black in the night. He's obviously a pitbull, his skull and ears the typical pitbull shape. But none of that stands out to me.

He's missing one of his rear legs.

It doesn't seem to bother him, though. He's standing, looking perfectly balanced and comfortable in his own skin. And for several long moments, we just stare at each other.

Fuck. What do I do with a dog?

I could take him to the shelter. I know for a fact that Philly has one specifically for pitbulls.

But something in the back of my mind is telling me not to do that. At least not tonight. Because of all the strays that are probably dropped off at those places, I'm betting a dog missing a leg is going to be low on the adoptable list, and high on the euthanize one.

I take a tentative step toward the street. The dog still only stares at me, so I pat my leg and give a short whistle.

That makes his ears perk up. And when I take another step and give another whistle, the dog takes a tentative step of his own.

"Come on, boss, let's get you some food and water," I murmur in what I hope is a soothing voice. And either he recognizes the word food, or he senses I just want to help, because he takes a few more steps until he's standing beside me.

"Good boy," I breathe in relief. Deciding to push this a little further, I slowly extend my hand to let him sniff it. He does, although his demeanor is suspicious as he does it.

"Let's get you home and out of this shithole." And at the reminder that he wasliterally left in a shithole, my blood starts to boil in my veins.

I've seen a lot of fucked up shit in my life, and a lot of it has rolled off my shoulders, but animal abuse is something I won’t fucking stand for. Lock me in a cage with the person who tied this creature into a tiny trash bag, and I guarantee they won't have a pulse by the time they're carried out.

I start to head in the direction of my apartment, suddenly thankful that it's only a short walk from here. He follows just behind me, and a few minutes later, we're climbing the steps to my second-floor apartment—missing leg be damned, because even that doesn't seem to bother this guy.

I immediately head to the kitchen for two bowls, and fill one with water while I look around for any food I could give him tonight. It's late, the pet stores all closed, so we'll just need to make do with what we have for right now.

Thankfully, I find half of a burger from my GrubHub order this week. I also throw in two hard-boiled eggs and voila, a meal for a dog.

Hescarfsit down. I grit my teeth and force myself not to think about how long this poor dog has been starved to be eating like that.

While he's eating, I go in search of a blanket for him to sleep on. I set up a nice little nest for him in the bathroom, and by the time I walk back into the kitchen, he's devoured every scrap of food and has curled up in a ball on the carpet by the door.

I lure him into the bathroom with a piece of bacon, so that at the very least, I can wipe him down a little and check if there are any visible injuries or bugs on him. He holds still while I rub a damp towel over his fur, though he vibrates with nerves as I do it. Thankfully, though, I don't see any bugs or open wounds in his short fur—nothing beyond a few old scars that once again make me grind my jaw.

After I rub him down with a dry towel, he does settle on the blanket I set out for him, but when I go to close the door, he barks in panic and bolts past me back to the kitchen.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.Guess we're giving the dog free roam of the house tonight.

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