“He survived because of a man who bought him soup when he had nothing,” I insisted, reaching out to grasp Earl’s forearm. “You’re part of this family now, Earl. Like it or not.”
For the first time since I met him under that park bench, the old man’s shoulders dropped. The gravelly, hardened armor he carried around his chest seemed to crack. He looked at Rocky, who leaned over and rested his heavy chin on Earl’s shoe, let out a long, shuddering sigh, and closed his eyes in the warm afternoon air.
“Soup,” Earl muttered, clearing his throat roughly to hide the tremble in his voice. “The damn dog wouldn’t even eat the fancy stuff. Only chicken noodle.”
“Then we’re having chicken noodle,” I said.
Three weeks later, the news broke wide. Northbridge Canine Services was stripped of its government contracts, and federal indictments were handed down for mail fraud, grand larceny, and animal cruelty. Pendelton’s slick smile was replaced by a grim scowl on the front page of every major newspaper as he was led away in handcuffs.
