Nothing prepares you for hearing your father’s life unravel through dashboard speakers while a dog refuses to let him die quietly.
My father, Gerald Matthews, turned eighty that August.
He still mowed his own lawn.
Still argued with newspaper editorials every morning over black coffee.
Still drove his faded silver Toyota Camry like it was indestructible.
And every single day, sitting politely in the back seat, was Miss Penny.
Golden Retriever.
Eleven years old.
Cream-colored fur around the muzzle now turning white with age.
My mother chose her.
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