Harold asked around the park, but no one claimed the dog. A young woman jogging past suggested it might have been abandoned. He felt a familiar ache in his chest at the thought. “Abandoned,” he repeated softly, as if testing the word.
Against the logical voice in his head that reminded him of his age and frailty, Harold scooped up the puppy and carried it home. He wasn’t sure what he’d do next—he hadn’t cared for an animal since his children’s old Labrador decades ago. But as the puppy curled against his sweater, warm and trusting, something long dormant stirred in him.
He named the pup Rusty, after the white patches in its otherwise golden fur.
The first weeks were an adjustment. Rusty was mischievous, chewing Harold’s slippers and toppling his cane more than once. He demanded attention, whining in the night, pawing at the door for walks, scattering kibble across the floor like confetti.
But slowly, Harold realized that the little dog was giving him something invaluable: purpose.
