I stared at the little dog's face. It's black button nose and blue marble eyes begged to be picked up. The fur was soft, softer than the fur on my mom's mink coat. I put it down and continued to stare at it. I though about walking away.
It seemed no different to me than watching the little puppies in a pet store unknowlingly beg for people to take them home, most of them standing or laying in their own crap, the only thing going for them their pathetic and vulnerable looks, staring with big, charming eyes, hoping that one of the spectators has a place for them at their home. Those dogs, though, were expensive. My mom always told me 'no' when I asked for a dog, that I didn't know how much work went into owning one.
The stuffed husky in front of me was different. I could get this dog, save it not from a cage, but from its prison sitting on a tiny shelf in a small corner of some tiny store that no one looking for stuffed animals would ever go to. And stuffed animals were easy to take care of--they didn't need anything. I had made up my mind: if the heart shaped tag pinned to the dog's right ear showed a price I could afford with the money I had on me, I would get it.
I picked it back up and checked the price tag: $4.99. Cheap enough, I thought, and plunged my hand into my pocket, digging out the dollars and cents Grandma had given me to get a soda. Four dollars, four twenty-five, four fifty-five--it was all I had. I looked at the four bills, two quarters and a nickel in my hand.
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