Sergeant Biscuit

Journal

They told me nobody wants the old ones. He was nine, grey, and three days from being put down. I took him home that afternoon.

The shelter said he'd been there eleven months. He'd stopped barking. He'd stopped hoping, I think.

I hadn't slept through the night in four years. The house was quiet in the wrong way.

The first night, he climbed onto the bed and put his head on my chest. I slept seven hours. Seven.

I had a hoodie made with his face on it. The lady at the print shop said, 'He's a handsome boy.' She wasn't wrong.

By Christmas, he had a routine. Leash at 6 a.m. sharp. He runs this house now.

Christmas morning, he tore the wrapping paper off his new toy and looked at me like I'd hung the moon. I laughed. I hadn't heard that sound in years.

Two old soldiers. He was nine and unwanted. I was forty-two and unreachable. We saved each other.