This story dropped into my Facebook newsfeed the other day. It's one of those universal tales that anyone who has cared for (a.k.a. "loved") a pet will recognize. CAUTION: Grab a few tissues; you might need them while you read this one.
Almost twelve years ago, I saw a flyer in a grocery store advertising a dog available for adoption. She was a year and half old, 35 pounds, and spayed after already birthing a litter. My wife and I met her a week after that. She was goofy and sweet, friendly to people, but couldn't stay with the multi-dog family who'd taken her off the streets. Any female canine within visual range was on her "kill" list. That's part of being born as a street dog. I brought her home in the passenger seat of my 2000 Chevy S-10 about two weeks later.
My wife named her Molly.