Dog in a Bag

I arrive late for the meeting with the new administrator. He reaches out to shake my hand. I decline because I am holding a heavy plastic bag in my right hand. Insisting, he reaches out and grabs my right wrist.

He wants to know why I’m reluctant to shake his hand.

I tell him that the bag I’m carrying contains the body of my whippet, Timmy. He was 15 years old, and suffering with several festering wounds over his body. Treating his wounds three times each day for six months had not resulted in relief for him. Maggots eventually appeared, so I had put Timmy out of his misery that morning.

The new administrator recoils, drawing back his hand in horror.

So much for first impressions.


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