It was well past midnight when I drove past Cedar Creek Bridge. The moonlight was dim, the air cold, and for a moment, I thought I saw something moving in the shadows by the guardrail. I stopped, stepped off my bike, and saw her: a Golden Retriever, thin, weak, trembling with fatigue. She lay curled up, her breathing shallow, a swollen lump on her belly that looked painful. Her fur was dusty, her eyes dull—and yet, there was a spark, a pleading look that said she needed help. Beside her was a small bowl of water, partly emptied; a stuffed duck toy, matted and torn, its stuffing coming out at one seam; and two handwritten notes. The first note, in neat adult handwriting, said that the family who owned her loved her deeply but could no longer care for her medical needs. It spoke of financial hardship and bad news they could no longer face. The language was…
