Confession by Carey Baldwin Page A

he was rarely called to join in the fun, he typically wore a hopeful, prepared expression that signaled he was ready to step in at any moment, just in case someone more popular got called inside for dinner or homework.
    Today, however, Tommy’s chin was tucked to his chest, his expression dejected. He hardly seemed to notice the lively game of tag taking place in the yard across the street. As she approached, he didn’t bother to look up. And there was something else. Crouching beside Tommy, its nose nudging the boy’s armpit, was a spotted dog that resembled a bag of bones covered in dusty fur.
    Her body tensed as she assessed the situation, but quickly relaxed when she noted the dog’s docile nuzzling of Tommy’s axilla, neck, and face, not to mention the mewling noises more akin to a kitten’s than an adult canine’s. By now she was close enough to see tears dripping down Tommy’s nose, hear his sniffles. The animal’s nuzzling accelerated in an urgent attempt to comfort the boy.
    â€œHey-­a.” Faith tried her wave and cheery smile again, but Tommy still didn’t look up.
    The dog, however, gave her a doleful look and whimpered at her, perhaps looking to her to help buck up Tommy.
    â€œWhere’d ya find this fellow?” Faith knelt on the grass and scratched behind the dog’s ears. More whimpering, then a vigorous tail wag.
    â€œChica’s a she. ”
    Faith gave Chica the once-­over and soon decided Tommy was right. Despite the bony rib cage and lack of subcutaneous fat, the dog’s belly bulged. Could be bloating secondary to the obvious malnutrition, but when Faith examined the dog’s swollen belly, she could clearly feel the cause. Chica was pregnant. And starving. Probably also flea-­ and tick-­infested. Poor Chica. Her hand swooped over the short polka-­dotted fur and found denuded areas. “You’re right. Chica is most definitely a she. Where’d ya find her?”
    â€œShe followed me home from school today. She wants to be my dog.” Chica wagged her tail and licked a fat tear off Tommy’s cheek.
    â€œI can see that.”
    A screen door slammed. Faith turned her head and watched Tommy’s mother scurry down the front steps and out to meet them. Mrs. Bledsoe slowed her pace once she saw it was only Faith chatting up Tommy and Chica.
    â€œStill not here?” Tommy’s mom stuck her hands on her hips and made a raspberry noise with her mouth.
    â€œNo, ma’am,” Tommy whispered.
    â€œI called animal control nearly an hour ago.” Mrs. Bledsoe filled Faith in. “Guess I better call them again.”
    At that, Tommy jumped to his feet and threw his arms around his mother’s waist, burying his face in her apron. “Please, Mom. Please don’t let them take Chica away.”
    With a firm but gentle hand, Mrs. Bledsoe untangled her son from around her middle. “She’s sick, Tommy. Lord knows what diseases she’s carrying. For all we know, she could have rabies.”
    Chica wagged her tail, and this time her butt got in on the action.
    â€œShe doesn’t have rabies, Mom. Anyone can see that. Rabid dogs don’t make friends with you. They growl at you and foam at the mouth. Don’t you remember Old Yeller?”
    â€œWell, maybe she doesn’t have rabies then. But she’s got the mange for sure.” Mrs. Bledsoe’s voice dropped. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I know how much you want to keep her, but we can’t afford a sick dog. I’m sure some nice family will adopt her.”
    Chica was scrawny, mangy, covered in nicks and cuts, and pregnant. Despite her winning personality, adoption didn’t seem the most likely outcome after animal control transported her to the shelter. Faith did a quick mental calculation of what she had left in her bank account. With no money coming into the practice as of yet, she’d been living off the