I’ve lived in Oakwood Hills for nearly twenty years—a place where news spreads faster than text messages and everyone knows your dog’s name. For the last three of those years, my golden retriever Charlie has been my steady companion. After my marriage ended, Charlie became my confidant, my walking buddy, and the bright spot in many quiet days.
Our mornings follow a familiar rhythm: coffee in hand, Charlie at my feet, and old Frank across the street calling out, “Morning, Sarah!” It’s a comforting start to the day. That is, until Kristen moved in next door.
Kristen was friendly at first—chatty, stylish, and full of compliments. She seemed especially taken with Charlie. “He’s just gorgeous! I’ve always wanted a golden!” she said the first time we met. I smiled politely, never imagining her admiration would go so far.
Then, last Tuesday, something awful happened. I let Charlie out into the backyard like always, but ten minutes later, he was gone. The gate was latched, the fence intact. My heart sank. I searched the neighborhood for hours, made flyers, contacted shelters—anything to bring him home.
By Thursday, I was exhausted and heartbroken. And then I saw him.
As I passed Kristen’s porch, there was Charlie—sitting calmly beside her in a new blue collar. I froze.
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