Artists Paint with Pictures; Writers Paint with Words

In Memory of Copper

You always were a runner.

That’s how we met. You were running away from something, and it landed you in the SPCA after the dog catcher on Onondaga Hill found you. Your face was scratched and your ear had a small hole in it…

Always a survivor.

How many times I wished I could have asked you: tell me about your former owners. I don’t think they were kind to you, because you put your tail between your legs way too often. When I approached you to pat your head, you rolled over submissively on your back, tummy up, with your legs in the air. You shook at the slightest sound of thunder. That always made me think you had been an outside dog.

Anyway, you found your moment to escape. I’m glad you did…for both of us.

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