My Boy George -- my special birthday dog

By Peter Bowden

It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, the wind sharp as a truth you’d rather not face. The sky was the color of old tin, and the parking lot outside the grocery store stretched empty, save for one shape hunched against the wind. A dog—ragged, chestnut-colored, tail curled like a question mark. He didn’t beg, didn’t whine. Just sat there like he was waiting for someone to remember him. Or maybe forgive him. The man got out of the car with half a bag of beef jerky and a whispered, “Hey there, buddy.” The dog looked up, and that was it. The story had started.

The man named him George—not because it meant anything at the time, but because it sounded solid, dependable, like an old friend who never asks too much. The dog didn’t trust the world at first, circling the house like it might vanish when he blinked. But over time he settled in—by the fire, under the table, near the man's boots. Thanksgiving came and went, but the real thanks was there in his eyes, every single morning. 

Years passed like falling leaves. George’s muzzle turned to frost, his eyes to embers. But he never lost that look—alert, loyal, full of the kind of forgiveness most people never earn. The man and the dog would sit together in the garden or out on the porch, watching dusk come on like an old song. And if anyone asked, the man would say he found him in a parking lot; but he knew better. 


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