I was the girl who showed up at the animal shelter a half-hour early to adopt the dog I had seen in quarantine a week earlier. I was the first in the door that morning and the only candidate for the skinny little mutt with the long white fur. I filled out the pages and pages of paperwork and sat through the lectures about training by shelter employees for an hour before they brought the dog out for me to view.
You were the trashy bleached-blond woman who came over to the yard where we were playing and insisted on adopting the same dog. You forced me to wait around for more than an hour while you filled out paperwork and your son ran amok in the lobby, crying and causing a scene. When they pulled your name out of the basket, you turned to smirk at me. "Better luck next time," you said, dragging your kicking son behind you.
"We'll keep your information on file," the shelter worker told me as she handed you the barking dog. I heard your son screaming through the sea of barking as I slouched away, heartbroken.
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