I was used to people staring. The sight of me—sunburnt, sweat-soaked, towing six dogs in a wobbly cart down a side road—wasn’t exactly subtle.
Most folks kept driving. Some slowed down to take a photo. A few rolled their windows down just to yell something ugly and then sped off like cowards
But she stopped.
Middle of the road, tires crunching on gravel, hazard lights flashing. I braced myself—expected the usual lecture, maybe a call to animal control.
Instead, she got out, walked right up, and said, “How far have you come?”