When I arrived home, I could hear Marigold, stumbling up the stairs. Marigold is my blind dog.

Marigold hangs out in our basement. It’s a safe place. We have a sofa down there. She lives on it. When she knows we’re home, however, she staggers up the stairs to find us.

She is a coonhound. Black and tan. About as big as a minute. We call her “Tiny.” She has long floppy ears and a sewed-up eye. Scars all over her body from past dog fights.

Marigold was blinded by her previous owner. A man who bought her for a hunting dog. He paid a lot for a purebred. He kept her in a cage. When he found out she was gunshy, he made her pay.

I don’t know what he used to blind her. The butt of a rifle maybe. Perhaps a length of rebar. Either way, he fractured her skull. Screwed up her optic nerve.

When they found her, she was ribs and skin. And her cranium was broken. Wandering along rural highways, avoiding cars by sound. Someone put her in the backseat of their car. And somehow, she made her way to us.

Other than her vision, she is a healthy dog. She loves our backyard and bays at local cats. If you’ve never heard a hound dog bay at a cat, you don’t know what you’re missing.

“I’m home, Marigold,” I said when I enter our house.

I was answered with the tenor voice of a hound dog.

When she got to the top of the stairs, she began negotiating obstacles. Looking for me.

It’s impressive to watch her navigate. She uses her muzzle to find her way. The floorplan is in her mind. She knows where all furniture is. Knows where all walls are. Knows each obstruction. Marigold traces the perimeter, and finds her way.

I was just watching her. Tail just a wagging.

When she got to me, the tail sped up. She pressed her snout against my leg. I held her in my arms. She used her nose to probe my facial features. Because that’s how she sees me. With her nose.

I placed my hands on her little body.

“Daddy’s home,” I said.

Sometimes I wonder about that man. The man who hurt her. I don’t know who he is, or what his problems are. His situation probably isn’t what it wants it to be. He probably has pain in his life.

I don’t know what he’s doing. Or where he lives. But someday, I hope he sees something I’ve written about her. I hope Marigold’s face sails across the Internet. And I hope he recognizes her.

I don’t want revenge. I don’t want him to suffer. I don’t want him to pay for what he did to my baby, for divine retribution would be more than any single human could bear. What I want is for him to see her.

I want him to see her as she is now. With a stitched up face. I want him to know that she is not nothing. She is not worthless. She is not refuse. He attempted to end her. He attempted to ruin this child of God.

But if he’s reading this…

I hope he knows his attempts failed.