I didn’t see a helpless animal. I didn’t see my son’s desperate need for a companion. All I saw was another mouth to feed, another chore to manage, and another thing that would require my exhausted energy.

“We can’t keep her, Toby,” I said, my voice flat and final. I didn’t even stand up from the table. I just stared at the smoke rising from my cigarette.

“I can feed her my leftovers, Mom,” he pleaded, his small hands gripping the edge of the box. “I’ll clean up after her. I’ll do all of it. I promise.”

“Dog food costs money, Toby. We don’t have it,” I lied. I knew exactly how much money was in my purse.

I had just bought two cartons of cigarettes the day before, which cost me seventy dollars total. That was more than enough to buy a year’s worth of kibble.

I was just lazy. I was selfish, and I wanted my quiet evenings with my television and my tobacco without having to worry about a dog barking or chewing on the furniture.

I stood up, walked over to the counter, and grabbed my car keys. “Get in the Buick, Toby. We’re taking her to the shelter before they close.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t scream or throw a tantrum. He just picked up the banana box, his knuckles turning white, and walked out to our rusted Buick Century. The heat inside the car was suffocating because the air conditioning had died three summers ago.

We drove down Cherry Street in absolute silence. The only sound was the dog’s heavy panting from the backseat. Toby sat staring straight ahead, his jaw locked so tightly I could see the muscles in his cheek twitching.

When we reached the Lucas County Dog Warden on Detroit Avenue, the smell of bleach and wet concrete hit us the moment we opened the heavy glass doors. The sound of dozens of dogs barking in the back room was deafening, a chaotic wall of noise that made my own stomach turn.

The woman behind the counter didn’t look up from her paperwork. She just slid a clipboard across the counter toward us.

“Surrender fee is ten dollars,” she said, her voice completely drained of emotion.

I handed her a ten-dollar bill, the exact price of six packs of my cigarettes. I signed my name on the line, but my hand was shaking so badly I could barely finish the cursive. Toby stood beside me, his eyes fixed on the dirty linoleum floor, his arms empty.

They took Barnaby through a metal door. She didn’t bark. She just looked back at Toby once, her one straight ear twitching, before the door clicked shut.