From the wooden house, you could smell the salsa and tomato juice that Grandma was up to her elbows in. She had been through these scenes before and was busy with steaming jars and strainers. Dogs appear from nowhere out here. But food doesn't can itself.
Grandpa walked a straight line from his front door to the front door of the neighbors across the street. He disappeared into the tidy beige brick house as Betty ran circles around two children in the side yard. He reappeared and the lady knew, even from yards away, that the dog was not theirs. He wouldn't be able to keep it. Grandma and Grandpa already had two dogs and six cats. And new animals showed up all the time. You could measure the health of a nation's economy by the number of lovable pets abandoned to country roads.
"We can't take her in. Just have to let her walk on, I guess." Grandpa didn't want to say it, but said it anyway. And the statement sat there like wind that forgot to move and the grass itself holding its breath.
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