“He wasn’t much when she brought him home. About the size of a sweet potato. About the same amount of hair, too.”
The chihuahua climbed onto my lap.
“He likes you. Don’t even like people he knows, usually. You got a dog?”
I took a few seconds, “No, sir, mine died. I don’t think I could go through that again. I just get my fill when I am out and around.”
He pulled some oranges off the tree behind the bench and handed me a couple.
“A little dog like that ain’t much account around a farm. You sit there and fill your tank with him.”
For the next couple minutes each of our thoughts unfolded privately, until the old farmer spoke, “Twice isn’t always good. He’s old. My wife’s dog, really. I suppose I’ll get to lose her a second time soon.”
Paco shivered beneath the stroke of my fingers, as we built small piles of orange peel at our feet.
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