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Little Mongrel

An elderly couple drew my attention. The man waited at the gate of a pen as the woman ventured inside. A white sign with a dog stood near the entrance, but there was none in sight. I approached the man casually, before I could speak he began: “We train here.” “Without a dog?” I asked. The woman began running around along the fence. “Our dog died.” The man said, without taking his eyes of the woman, then to her: “That’s it Margaret! That’s it!” I felt queer when I saw her make bunny hops, admirably for her old age. She paused in a corner, hunched, and put her nose to the ground. “Then what are you training, if I may ask?” I dared. “It’s for her, you see.” He looked at his feet then at me. “We train her to let go. She was quite attached to the little mongrel.”

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