No one stopped.
At first, neither did I.
I was fifty-eight, on a short lunch break, and needed to finish my shopping before returning to the medical office where I worked.
I had enough on my mind already.
My eighty-two-year-old mother had recently begun forgetting small things — turning off the stove, where she had left her glasses, whether she had already told me the same story twice.
Since my father died five years earlier, I had quietly built my life around taking care of her.
So I had no intention of wasting time on what looked like an abandoned, aggressive dog.
Then I noticed something strange.
An elderly woman walked past the dog.
The little terrier lunged and barked wildly.
But the moment the woman was far enough away, the dog stopped.
She turned around.
Took two small steps toward the wall.
Then lowered her head almost to the concrete.
