So it’s 1:30 in the morning and I’m outside in my underwear up on the roof of the garage, then up on the hill by our outdoor watertank, flashlight in hand, looking for something, for I’m not sure what.
I’ve heard something, some kind of animals yelping helplessly out here somewhere. Thought some animal was attacking the rabbits, that the darn security guard with the funky clothes I told you about the other day wasn’t doing his job. Then I spot them – a couple of little brown puppies.
I go get some pants on and phone my neighbour, what every neighbour enjoys at such times. He comes out. We see four more puppies. The university’s security guards will surely kill them; don’t want wild dogs around, you see. Yes, these puppies will be targets. We spot the mother, a skinny and tired looking thing. We leave them for the night.
It’s now noon the next day and seven furry puppies are in my back porch, full of milk and hands all around them from the swarm of kids that have descended. Liz and Jon and Hannah have already begged and begged and begged Daddy that we keep them. Just because, you know, nothing else is going on these days.
“But why do they kill the poor little things,” Jon says, coming into my bedroom with one in hand. “To put their heads on the walls?”