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Sitting across from Daniel at the kitchen table, I suggested bringing something alive into the house—something to care for and to share our love with. He hesitated, warning me he didn’t want a small, noisy animal, but after a long pause, he agreed to simply “look.” That Saturday morning, we walked into the municipal animal shelter, surrounded by barking, spinning, hopeful dogs. But in the far corner, in the quietest part of the room, lay Daisy—a frail, elderly dog with a silver muzzle and eyes that seemed to hold a quiet wisdom.
She did not bark or move much, yet the faint tap of her tail as I knelt before her felt like a small, deliberate hand reaching for mine. Daisy was twelve, sick, and only eligible for hospice adoption. Daniel recoiled at first, unable to understand why I would choose a dog so clearly nearing the end of her life.
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