There are lots of reasons I shouldn’t go any closer—I remember all the times my veterinarian mom has told me, “Just because an animal is cute doesn’t mean it can’t be dangerous.” I know. I remember. It could have rabies or be aggressive or feral. But Mom isn’t here; she can’t see how sweet its eyes are. Those aren’t rabies eyes. They aren’t feral eyes. They’re soft and kind and curious, and its stance is relaxed.

I kneel down on the ground, not speaking so my voice doesn’t scare it, thinking really hard, It’s okay, doggy. I hold my hand out to be sniffed, palm up like Mom says to do. I won’t hurt you.

It blinks, and I swear I hear that voice in my head again say, Okay, I believe you.

I blink back, and slowly, the dog fully emerges from the cover of greenery, with its head—no, her head—low and her nose wiggling, her tail wagging slowly and evenly, calm as she sniffs the air between us.

Come here, I say in my head, stretching my fingers toward her.

She’s not wearing a collar, so that makes me wonder if anyone is even looking for her. As she moves closer, I see that she is not like any dog I’ve ever seen before. Her coat is speckled in dots and spots of brown and red and tan and white and gray and every shade in between. I can feel her breath on my hand as she sniffs. Just like her two eyes are different from each other, so are her ears. One of them is pointy and the other is floppy.

Our eyes meet again, and I suddenly feel hungry and tired, just like she must be.

As she nuzzles the top of her head into the palm of my hand, I see that she has a small cut above her blue eye, and she limps a little with each step. The tiny hairs on my arms stand up, and somehow I can feel how very afraid she’s been. But even if she is a little scared, she lets me run my hand along her flank and behind her ears until she sits down in front of me.

She starts licking at her front paw, seeming bothered by it. Every time she sets it on the ground, she lifts it back up right away.

Slowly, I hold my hand out and she lets me take her paw. I try to tell her again with my thoughts that it’s okay. She lets my fingers feel around the bottom of her paw. I find something sharp and pointy stuck right between two of her paw pads. I grab it with my fingers and very slowly, very gently, pull on it.

She lets out a huge yelp and jumps away from me.