I never thought I’d find my 86-year-old granddad outside his own house, standing there like a stranger. A battered suitcase sat by his feet, flanked by two trash bags. Next to him, a small whimpering puppy with a cast on its leg huddled close, seeking comfort from the chill in the air.
“Granddad, what’s going on?” I asked, my voice laced with disbelief and concern.
He looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and resignation. “Linda said the dog ruins the house value,” he whispered, almost as if he was ashamed. “She told me to leave if I didn’t get rid of her.”
