In his mind’s eye, he saw the tired blonde flattering his ill uncle with promises she never planned to fulfill. His steps automatically quickened as he drew closer to the boat. No way, he could afford to miss this meeting. Getting the harpie out of the house would be the first thing he’d do. No doubt, she probably already decorated it with black velvet paintings and neon pink flamingos. Roy adorned his house with an eye to the practical by replacing whatever broke with what was cheapest. With all the transitions he’d experienced recently, the familiar, no matter how old or ragged, would be welcomed.
Melody sat in the parking lot of the animal shelter staring at the empty spaces. No one was here. Not that she expected it. Sunday was the only day the shelter officially closed. Saturday ruled as their best day with resigned parents arriving with eager children in tow. Often, those same families returned two or three weeks later with their adopted pet and apologetic expressions and weak excuses. Most people didn’t understand the special needs of a shelter animal.
It was equivalent to adopting a foster child. The children often tested the foster parents by showing their worse behavior expecting to be abandoned again. She’d been guilty of such herself. Her childhood was a rough one. She spent more time with her social worker than her fosters. She could identify with the rejected puppy. Her returns resulted from alleged moodiness and tantrums. The people who took her for the money she’d bring quickly asked for a different child. "This one is too spoiled," was the complaint of a short-lived foster mom.
She wasn’t spoiled, far from it. Spoiling involved someone loving you and giving you whatever your heart desired. That wasn't her mom.