We called him Bud. Or Buddy. But the name on his city registration read: Buddy Boy Paisley Robinson. Not only did he have our family’s last name, but he’d been given a middle name as well: Paisley—my grandmother’s maiden name, my father’s middle name, and my middle name. He was part of the family, name and all.

He was an Australian sheepdog with patches of brown, black and white fur. His stubby tail wagged fast, and his ears felt like silk. I often imagined if he went blind, he’d recognize me by the particular way I pet his ears. I met Buddy when we were both one year old. I spent the first year of my life in a safe warm home. He spent his first year on the city streets. While I ate from a bottle, he picked scraps from trashcans. But my parents rescued him. And nine years later, he needed rescuing again.
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