I get another cry for an answer. My heart breaks. The pup looks like a golden retriever with more of a dirty brown fur and a longer snout. He must be a mutt. Apparently an abandoned mutt.

“You smell awful.” He must have even before my gasoline shower seeing how dirty he is. I pat his head all the same and he waggles his tail happily in response. “Oh, I see what you’re trying to do. Forget it; I can’t have a pet.” As if in protest, the dog sits on my feet. Is he trying to prevent me from leaving? Maybe the puppy isn’t as abandoned as he looks. What if it the gasoline alone got him dirty? He might be lost. But he has no collar or tag.

Let’s finish with the gas, and then I’ll see.

When the tank is full, I go inside the convenience store to pay. Someone there may know whose dog he is. But as soon as I step a foot inside, the clerk says, “Hey, miss, you can’t bring your dog in here.”

Startled by the remark, I lower my gaze. The pup has followed me inside.

“This is not my dog. Actually, I wanted to ask you if you knew who he belonged to.”

“Are you sure it ain’t yours?” The man looks suspiciously at my feet where the puppy has stopped next to me, sitting down as if trained to do so.

“Yes. I was filling the tank, and he came out of nowhere.”

“Well, if it ain’t yours, I’ll have to call pest control.”

“Pest control? He’s no pest he’s just an abandoned puppy.”

“Sorry, but I can’t have no stray dogs in my station.”

“I’m sure there’s a better way to solve the problem.”

“If you’re so worried about the fur ball, why don’t you take it?”

“I can’t keep a dog.”

This statement earns me a desperate, pleading howl from the little mutt.

“What?” I lower my gaze to him again. “You speak English?”

I get a subdued bark as a reply.

“Listen, miss, if you ain’t taking the dog, I’m calling pest control or animal control or whatever you like to call it.”

“All right, all right,” I say impulsively. “Tell me how much it is for the gas, and I’ll deal with the puppy.”

“Thirty-nine dollars.”

I give him my card. “Wait. Do you sell garbage bags?”

“Third aisle behind you.”

I grab an eighty pack of perfumed ones, pay, and exit. Mr. Mutt walks at my heel again.

Back to the car, I kneel down next to the puppy.

“Just to be clear, this is a temporary arrangement,” I tell him. I swear the dog smiles at me. “There’s no way I can keep you in my tiny Manhattan apartment. Understood?”

I get two enthusiastic barks back.