My enabler was my mother. She was a single mom who had worked double shifts to give me everything, and I repaid her by taking everything.
Then came the day I pushed too far. I asked for rent money again, but I’d already spent my own portion on a new gaming console. When I called her, expecting the usual lecture followed by a bank transfer notification, I got silence.
Then a text: “I love you. Figure it out.”
Then, the block.
My landlord didn’t wait. Within forty-eight hours, I was out. I threw my clothes into the backseat of my beat-up sedan. I had nowhere to go. But I wasn’t alone.
Sitting in the passenger seat, looking at me with confused, soulful brown eyes, was Barnaby.
Barnaby wasn’t just a dog. He was a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon—a shaggy, bearded, old-soul of a dog with a sensitive stomach and a heart of gold. He required a specific, expensive hypoallergenic kibble. He needed monthly allergy medication.
I looked at him. He thumped his tail against the worn upholstery. He trusted me. He didn’t know his owner was a loser.
