I am held tightly as I lie half on a thin mat, half in the loving arms of my Girl. Gloved fingers handle a needle aimed towards my shoulder. As it pierces my flesh, a sharp stab of pain diminishes to a dull throbbing as it sinks deeper into my skin. I whimper softly, pathetically, as the image of the bloody point swims in my vision. The gloved hands retreat with it, slowly marching out of my sight as I collapse into the arms that hold me. My eyes are forced closed as my head droops wearily down to rest on the mat.

Then I am falling, falling through nothingness, dropping down into the puppy mill in which I was born. I see my mother again, licking my head, my body, my shoulders. She curls protectively around me, cooing softly in my ear.

Then those scarred, brown, muscular hands appear. They grab her, tying a thick rope around her neck. They drag her to an iron door, twisting the rope around in both hands. She is so weak, she cannot resist; she only whimpers as they pull her limp body from the room and slam the door. The bang echos around the room—the death sentence for my mother.

Once again, I am tumbling down until I reach another room. This one emits a friendly yellow glow. As I look around, the pink and purple walls are lined with soft beds in different varieties of red, blue, pink, and brown. Bags of treats and bins of dry food are stacked luxuriously on shelves above wire crates and flowery blankets. This is the pet shop I was taken to long ago.

My face is pressed to the glass, my eyes following a girl and her mother as they walk into the store. Then new hands come. This time smooth, white, and manicured. They place into another pair of hands; these are soft, tiny hands. I still, and the girl who now holds me smiles. She caresses me against her body while her mother reaches out to smooth my tawny coat. Then I am taken again by those white hands, and placed back into the small run with the other German Shepherds. The girl and her mother leave. I press my muzzle against the glass, hoping for them to come back, wishing for them to take me away from tiny cages and aggressive littermates. My paws slip, scratching the clear barrier, and the girl looks back and smiles. Looks back for only a second.

The next day, she is back. They talk with a woman, one with a purple apron. The girl smiles again, and lifts me up into her arms herself. I don’t struggle, only gaze into her eyes; they are hazel with gold flecks, so much like mine. She gazes back at me momentarily, before cuddling me against her body.

And I am falling again, plunging into blackness, landing in a cozy, mustard-yellow room. Girl—she is Girl now—is there. I lick her hands, her soft, delicate hands. She laughs and scratches me behind my ears.

Then I am Zeke. And as my name is called, I follow Girl down the stairs, into a tiled, slippery room. She lays down two silver bowls, pouring some dry crumbles into one and clear water into the other, before leaving. But I stay, letting the salty-savory taste roll over my tongue.

I climb back up the stairs, back to her room. Girl’s old blanket is folded neatly in my crate. I curl up inside, my nose underneath her scent, her love. Then I am asleep. Then Zeke falls asleep.

Descending again, rapidly through a deep, deep hole, until I reach the time a few years later. The time Ann came. Mother brings her in, a toy poodle with a delicate pink ribbon around her neck. Ann, they call her. Zeke, they say. Your new friend.

Ann is not a friend. Ann muses by the window, rolls in the sunshine. Takes my bowl, my water, takes Girl’s love. Takes everything I love. Ann, with her delicate paws, her adorable muzzle, her perfect fur. Sneers at me when Girl is away. Laughs at me when I snarl. Teases me with her tiny paws, batting at my tan underside. Calls me names: Mutt, Clumsy, Useless, Forgotten.

Forgotten. Girl has not forgotten me. Girl loves me as much as Ann. I am furious. I can feel my blood boiling inside my veins, oozing into my senses like poison. Ann is no friend. Ann is a thief. I snarl, jump, bite. Red burns across my vision in slashes and streaks. All I can see is Ann’s blood, all I can hear is her howling screams, all I can feel is the blood streaming from her wound, covering my tawny paws, covering the cream carpet.

Evil, she hisses. Murderer, she growls.

Girl comes running, then screams at the blood. Ann limps away, whimpering. Blood covers my paws, my ears, my teeth, clogging my nails. I look up at Girl, at her beautiful gold-flecked eyes, searching for love and affection, for those eyes that I looked into the day she brought me home. But all I see is fear. There is fear for the blood covering the floor, fear for the way my teeth ripped Ann’s skin, fear for my glowing eyes and bloody teeth. But as I look closer, I can see her disappointment. And that hurts more than anything I have ever felt before.

I am slipping, skidding, sliding past hours,. I wait impatiently behind a door where murmurs slip here and there out of the cracks. They are talking about me. Talking about what to do with me.

Suddenly, they emerge. Girl holds Ann, far from my reach. I paw at Girl’s feet, attempting to look again into her golden-flecked eyes. She looks quickly away, sadness radiating off of her in waves. I whimper and shrink into the corner. Only Ann glances back, her eyes filled with malice and contempt.

Ann is asleep, her perfect head rested on Girl’s pillow, her delicate paws placed carefully on Girl’s forearm, as if they were made of china. I see a darkish mark a little less than a foot long. My mark. Sadly, I curl up in my crate, burrowing my muzzle underneath Girl’s extra blanket, reaching for her warmth, her love. All that is there, though, is icy sadness. Girl’s sadness.

I am plummeting again, plummeting down, down. Daylight streams through the window. Ann greets me with a glare of contempt, as if she knows that she is better than me, as if she is the alpha dog around here. I pull back my lips in a snarl. I don’t attack, remembering the look of disappointment on Girl’s face.

Instead it is Ann who strikes first. She lunges, white teeth flashing, her eyes black pits. I am too startled to react until a piercing stab in my front leg brings my fury back to me. A steady flow of blood trickles from my wound. I nip at Ann as she jumps towards my hind legs; I will not hurt her, if that is what it will take for Girl to love me again. Ann is covered in blood—my blood. My paws are soaked red from my wound. I lick them, trying in vain to clean them before Girl sees the mess. The blood smears on my mouth, my tongue, my teeth. Ann jumps forward again, this time towards my throat.

So I run. I push Ann aside and run to the front door. Now Girl will see that I am innocent, that I have done nothing wrong, that it is Ann who deserves her fear and disappointment.

I realize my mistake too late. Girl walks through the door, looks at me, at the blood covering my paws and teeth and mouth, and screams. Ann limps into the room, whimpering from when I pushed her aside. She is covered in blood. But it is my blood that covers her now.

Three dreary, lonely days locked in Girl’s room flash before my eyes. Then I am suddenly in a car. Ann is nowhere to be seen. I am alone with Girl, Mother, and Father. A leash is attached to the collar around my neck. Girl is crying. I nuzzle her, lick her face. She gently pushes me away. Says something about how she doesn’t want me to leave her. You’ll be a good Zeke, she says. You’ll try to be nice to Ann. I try to tell her the truth, that Ann is the one who doesn’t belong here, that I had tried to be a good boy. But she doesn’t hear me. Only begs me to be good dog again, even though she knows it is too late.

And I know she wants me to be a good dog for what is the remaining hours of my life. Girl seems to sense that I know. She apologizes over and over, says she tried to help me. I want to tell her I am sorry.

Instead, I lick her, lick away the tears, lick her like my mother could do to me only once. She smiles sadly, and strokes my fur, runs her fingers over my coat. I love her more than ever. She is Girl, she is my Girl. She had shared her room with me, walked me to the park and back, tried to protect me from this unknown terror that would take my life, and gave me a second chance. Girl, my Girl, had given me more than any German Shepherd could wish for. She had given me her love.

And then, all of a sudden, I am not scared to face this terror. I am held tightly as I lie half on a thin mat, half in the loving arms of my Girl. Gloved fingers handle a needle aimed towards my shoulder. As it pierces my flesh, a sharp stab of pain diminishes to a dull throbbing as it sinks deeper into my skin. I whimper softly, pathetically, as the image of the bloody point swims in my vision. The gloved hands retreat with it, slowly marching out of my sight as I collapse into the arms that hold me. As my eyes are forced closed and my head droops wearily down to rest on the mat, all I can feel is Girl’s love as her arms wrap around me for the last time.