“Her name is Butterball.”

My car got broken into this week and I dropped it off at the repair shop this morning after breakfast with Husband. My rental won’t be available until this afternoon.

I decided to walk home. It’s only maybe a mile.

It’s 54 degrees, there’s a light breeze, it’s perfect of you ask me.

There’s a city park between where I was and where I’m walking to. So I decided to sit on a bench next to the pond with the fountain and just listen.

It only took a minute to start twitching for my phone so I picked it up and tapped, tapped, tapped.

And then, slowly but surely, a good dog approached me. I said hello and she was friendly. She liked my pets and rubs so much she burrowed her head in the back of my knee. She sniffed my bag, probably for a treat or a whiff of a feline, and kept resting her body against me while I gave her good rubs.

“Her name is Butterball,” said her human, who was probably 20 or 25 feet away from me. It’s prejudiced of me to say, but his clothing was tattered and his appearance unkempt enough to cause me to wonder if he’s experiencing homelessness.

He asked Butterball to come along. She sauntered over, all 60 or so pounds of her. She’s clearly older, maybe having some hip issues, but I called her a good girl young pup and said, “Bye!”

She slowly moved over to some foliage and did a little sniff, then headed towards her human.

I thanked him, and I’m not sure he heard me.

But I think Butterball did, and I think that’s actually more important anyway.