A 7-year-old boy in dirty pajamas bolted down the empty lumber aisle, threw his arms around my 90-pound scarred rescue Pitbull, and whispered, “Please make her bite my dad. He has a weapon and Mom isn’t breathing.”
Heavy boots slammed against the concrete floor just a few aisles over. Someone was running fast, frantically tearing through the massive home improvement center. I didn’t even have time to drop the piece of plywood I was holding before the little boy practically dove behind my dog.His face was streaked with dirt and fresh tears. … Read more