A Tribute to My Best Friend Woody
I first saw Woodstock running across a turnpike we were turning onto late one dark night in Georgia Atlanta. He was a stray, 11 weeks old, or so we thought.
We stopped the car and used my phone to light the road and he was bouncing towards the traffic. I couldn’t see how big or what breed he was just those two ears flapping away above a frantic bundle. I panicked a little because I couldn’t help it, had no name to shout and now it was close to the freeway. I put my fingers to my mouth and whistled as loud as I could, and it stopped the dog in its tracks.
It turned, set eyes on me, then in one swift movement about faced and ran straight at me, snarling with flashes of white teeth in the darkness. It hit me around the legs and even though I couldn’t see only hear the distress, I reached down thinking I was going to be bitten. I grabbed a fist full of soft neck fur and lifted what was an incredibly light weight and shone my phone on it.
