There was something about the way he walked. He was a stray. You can just tell.

I called him, clicking my tongue like Roy Rogers calling Trigger.

He had pitbull in him. I could tell by the broad face and the knife-like eyes.

Most US strays are pitbulls. My friend, John, works at animal shelters. John said people buy pitbulls thinking they’ll be cool-looking dogs, but aren’t prepared for the kind of pitbull stubbornness that makes a mule look reasonable.

So the dog usually gets canned. Some take their dog to shelters. Many don’t. Many exemplary citizens just drop dogs off on busy highways.

I know about pitts. I have a pitbull-mix named Otis. He was found walking the streets of Defuniak Springs, Florida. He hadn’t eaten in days.

But getting back to the original pitbull I was telling you about.

It took a whole hour to gain his trust. When I was sure he trusted me—really trusted me—I lifted him into my truck.

He rode in my passenger seat the whole way to the shelter. I lifted him out of my truck because he was limping badly. Plus, I didn’t want him to run. “Come here, boy.”

came trotting toward me. He was beautiful. Muscular torso. Amber eyes. His coat was smoky gray. He was sweeter than a Chilton County peach.

There was blood all over him. Someone had tried to crop his ears, but they had butchered him. It looked like they’d cut him with box cutters. His ears were almost completely removed, open wounds. Ear holes were exposed. Blood caked on his face.

I removed my own belt, and used it as a leash. I walked into the animal shelter holding my pants up with half of my backside showing.

The older ladies behind the counter gave me funny looks.

“I can see your butt,” one said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, grasping my pants.

“It’s okay, I’ve seen better.”

The women behind the counter cooed over the animal. This, I believe, is the first requirement for working in a shelter. You must know how to coo.

The dog was in heaven. I doubt he’d ever had two females gush over him at once. Come to think of it, neither have I. Maybe his butt was cuter than mine.

One young woman declared, “I’m going to take him home. My boyfriend is going to freak, we already have nine dogs, but I need him.”

From time to time, Laura would text pictures of the dog. She named him Barney. He looked so happy.

Then I got the call that Barney had heart worms. I met Laura at her house and hung out with Barney one last time. He was cheerful. Oblivious to the fact that he was dying. Oblivious to the fact that humans had failed him.

When he saw me, he beat his tail on the floor. He licked my face. I don’t know if he remembered me or not. I pretended that he did.

It all ended the next morning. He went to a place where all dogs go. He went peacefully. I’m not sure why I’m telling you about this animal, except that I believe every soul deserves to be remembered.