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It was the kind of heat that makes the air shimmer, when even the breeze feels like it’s blowing straight from an oven. I only meant to be out for pasta and sauce—nothing more. But as I stepped from my car into the blazing afternoon and scanned the near-empty parking lot, something caught my eye: a silver sedan, a few spaces down. Inside it, a German Shepherd, slumped and panting, trapped in the heat.
There was no cracked window. No shade. Just suffocating heat—and a dying dog.
I rushed over. Her eyes were dull, her breathing shallow. A note on the windshield read: “Back soon. Dog has water. Don’t touch the car.” The sealed bottle in the front seat told a different story. I called the number. The man dismissed me, told me not to interfere.
So I picked up a rock and smashed the window.
Alarms blared. I pulled her out and cooled her with my own water. People gathered. Help came. And so did the man—angry, yelling. Police arrived. After hearing both sides, they cited him for animal neglect.
That dog came home with me.
I named her Hope.
Because that’s what she gave me.
And yes—I’d do it again.
