My family had just moved to South Carolina from Ohio. We made the journey in two cars, with two kids and two cats. After only a few days, I took my five year old daughter for a “look see” drive to a nearby state park. We drove through it to see a beautiful stable and horses, a large, still lake and a gnarled old woman. “Did Y’all lose a little brown dog?” she drawled.
My daughter and I looked at each other and were instantly intrigued. The dog was more yellow than brown, had fleas and a bad case of mange. It was wrapped up in a tight circle on the floor of the woman’s station wagon. The woman claimed she rescued the dog from some kids who had been hitting it with a stick. He looked more like a baby deer than a dog. Our hearts melted over the story and his pitiful appearance.
We knew that our home would easily hold at least one more. We took him home, fed him, bathed him, and named him Pork Chop. In return, he allowed our family to continue loving him for the next 19 years. Miss you still, Chop.
CANTON, OH
