The puppy was barely breathing when I pulled him out from underneath a parked Ford F-150.
It was July 16, 2024, in Lubbock, Texas.
The air temperature had reached 109 degrees.
The pavement was even hotter.
And beneath that truck, a tiny tan-and-white puppy had been lying on asphalt so hot it had burned the pads of his paws.
He couldn’t have been more than eight or ten weeks old.
He was severely underweight.
His tongue had turned purple.
And when I wrapped him in my uniform shirt and carried him toward my patrol car, he barely moved.
My name is Rafael Bermudez.
I’ve been a police officer for nine years.
I’ve responded to accidents, domestic disputes, medical emergencies, and more situations than I care to remember.
But that afternoon, standing in a gas station parking lot with a four-pound puppy against my chest, I was more frightened than I wanted to admit.
I checked my watch when I reached the cruiser.
2:58 p.m.
I’d spent approximately seven minutes trying to get him out from beneath the truck.
Seven minutes kneeling on pavement so hot it burned my own skin.
The puppy’s breathing was shallow.
He was limp in my arms.
And I knew that if I waited too long, he might not survive.
Then a nineteen-year-old gas station attendant named Mateo Quintana walked toward me.
He was carrying a bowl of cool water and a clean, damp kitchen towel.
“Officer. I thought you could use this.”
I looked at him.
He was just a young man working a summer shift at Allsup’s.
But he’d noticed a small animal in trouble, called for help, and then thought about what else he could do.
“Mateo,” I told him, “thank you, brother. This is going to help.”
I didn’t know it then, but that young man would eventually become a friend of my family.
And the puppy in my arms would change my life.
Seven Minutes Beneath the Truck
When I first arrived at the Allsup’s at 34th Street and Avenue Q, the heat was almost unbearable.
It was the kind of West Texas afternoon when parking lots shimmered and touching exposed metal was a bad idea.
Mateo had reported a puppy trapped beneath a parked pickup.
The little dog had apparently taken shelter there, but the pavement beneath him was dangerously hot.
He was too weak to come out on his own.
I got down on the ground and tried to reach him.
He was small enough to fit into a narrow space beneath the truck, but getting close without frightening or hurting him wasn’t easy.
I had to move carefully.
The pavement burned against my forearms and knees.
The puppy barely reacted.
That frightened me more than if he’d barked or tried to escape.
After several minutes, I managed to reach him.
I removed my uniform shirt and used it to wrap his body, protecting him as much as I could from the scorching pavement.
Then I carefully pulled him free.
He was lighter than I expected.
I could feel how little strength he had left.
When I reached the cruiser, I held him against my chest while the air conditioning began cooling the vehicle.
Mateo brought the damp towel.
I used it as part of our effort to help the puppy while keeping him from becoming chilled too rapidly.
But he wasn’t improving enough.
His breathing remained shallow.
His gums looked pale, and the color of his tongue worried me.
He was clearly in critical distress.
I knew he needed a veterinarian.
Immediately.
The Decision I Had to Make
Animal control was backed up.
The estimated wait was around four hours.
This puppy didn’t have four hours.
I wasn’t convinced he had another hour.
The nearest emergency veterinary hospital was roughly fourteen minutes away under normal conditions.
I radioed dispatch.
“Dispatch, this is Bermudez. I have a juvenile canine subject in critical heat distress. Animal control is unavailable. I am transporting to Lubbock Veterinary Emergency for emergency treatment, code three.”
The dispatcher acknowledged my report but reminded me that this wasn’t the standard procedure.
Was I requesting authorization?
I looked toward the passenger seat.
The puppy was lying on the damp towel.
His chest moved faintly.
I knew I’d have to document and explain the decision afterward.
But there wasn’t time for a long discussion.
“The subject will not survive without immediate intervention,” I said. “I am exercising officer discretion.”
Dispatch logged the decision.
I carefully secured the puppy for transport, activated my emergency lights, and drove toward the hospital.
I didn’t use the siren.
I didn’t want the noise to add to his distress.
I kept checking him whenever it was safe.
His body barely moved.
The drive took nine minutes.
I arrived at approximately 3:15 p.m.
I carried him through the hospital doors still wrapped in my damp uniform shirt.
And the veterinarian on duty took one look at us.
The Doctor Who Wouldn’t Give Up
Her name was Dr. Imani Beecher-Solano.
She was forty-one and had spent thirteen years working as a veterinarian, including seven in emergency medicine.
She wore black-framed glasses and scrubs decorated with small cartoon dogs.
When she saw what I was carrying, she immediately held out her arms.
I handed her the puppy.
“Treatment room two. Now.”
She moved quickly.
A veterinary technician named Esmeralda Kovacic-Bell prepared equipment while Dr. Beecher-Solano began assessing him.
His body temperature measured 107.4 degrees Fahrenheit.
Dangerously high for a dog.
He was severely dehydrated and malnourished.
His paws were burned.
And the team was concerned about the effects of extreme heat on his body.
They began carefully controlled emergency treatment.
Fluids.
Cooling measures.
Oxygen support.
Continuous monitoring.
I stood near the wall, watching.
I was used to being the person who arrived when something was wrong.
The one who made decisions.
Called for help.
And took charge of an emergency scene.
But there was nothing more I could do for the puppy now.
His life was in the veterinarian’s hands.
After approximately fifteen minutes, his temperature had fallen to 104.1 degrees.
The team continued working.
Around thirty minutes into treatment, it was down to 102.8.
The puppy’s breathing became steadier.
The frightening color of his tongue began returning to pink.
Dr. Beecher-Solano listened to his chest.
Checked him again.
Then looked toward me.
“Officer. He’s going to live.”
I sat down on the treatment room floor.
Right there, with my back against the wall.
I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together.
For the first time since I’d crawled beneath that truck, I allowed myself to believe the puppy might survive.
The Name Nobody Expected
Dr. Beecher-Solano explained that the puppy would need continued care.
His paw pads had suffered burns.
He was dehydrated.
He had fleas and was likely carrying intestinal parasites.
He was considerably underweight for his estimated age.
But he was responding to treatment.
That was the most important thing.
He would need to remain at the hospital for monitoring.
Then the veterinarian asked a question I hadn’t considered.
“What’s his name?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know. He’s not mine. I found him under a truck.”
She looked toward the puppy.
Then back at me.
“Why don’t you give him a name?”
I sat quietly for a moment.
My mind went back to the parking lot.
The heat.
The pavement.
The burns on his tiny paws.
And how close he’d come to dying before anyone could get him out.
Then I said it.
“Asphalt.”
Dr. Beecher-Solano looked at me.
“Are you serious?”
I nodded.
“I pulled him off that asphalt. He almost died there. But he didn’t.”
Then I hesitated.
“Maybe that’s a terrible name.”
The veterinarian smiled.
“No. Asphalt. That’s his name.”
And just like that, the little dog had something he hadn’t had when I found him.
A name.
She wrote it on his medical chart.
ASPHALT — MALE — TAN AND WHITE — ESTIMATED 8–10 WEEKS.
I looked at the puppy resting on the examination table.
He had an IV line in his small leg.
His eyes were closed.
But he was breathing steadily.
A short time earlier, I hadn’t known whether he’d survive the trip to the hospital.
Now he was alive.
And his name was Asphalt.
I thought that would be the end of my involvement.
I’d rescued him.
The veterinarian had stabilized him.
Surely someone else would handle what came next.
Then Dr. Beecher-Solano handed me a clipboard.
The Paperwork That Changed Everything
Asphalt had no identification.
No microchip.
And no known owner.
Under the local intake arrangements described to me, an unclaimed dog could eventually enter the city’s shelter system after the required holding period.
The veterinarian explained that the shelter was severely overcrowded during the summer heat emergency.
She couldn’t promise what would happen to a malnourished puppy who still needed ongoing care.
But there was another possibility.
Someone could take responsibility for his continued care through the appropriate intake process.
That person would also be responsible for his veterinary bills and future needs.
I looked at the paperwork.
The estimated medical expenses were substantial.
Around eight hundred dollars initially.
And there would be more costs afterward.
Vaccinations.
Follow-up examinations.
Food.
Supplies.
Everything involved in raising a puppy.
I was thirty-four years old.
Married.
The father of a six-year-old daughter.
And working a job that regularly kept me away from home at unpredictable hours.
A dog wasn’t something I could bring home without discussing it with my family.
My wife, Catalina, had wanted one for a while.
Our daughter, Luciana, had been asking for a puppy for what felt like her entire life.
Even my mother had been encouraging me.
But wanting a dog in theory was different from suddenly becoming responsible for an injured puppy.
I took the paperwork.
Then stepped outside and called Catalina.
“Rafi, Bring Him Home.”
Catalina answered from our kitchen.
She’d picked Luciana up from summer day camp and was preparing dinner.
“Cat, I need to tell you something.”
Her voice changed immediately.
“Rafi, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But I’m at the veterinary hospital.”
There was silence.
Then she asked what had happened.
I told her everything.
The gas station.
Mateo.
The puppy beneath the truck.
The heat.
The emergency drive.
And the veterinarian who had just told me the little dog would survive.
Then I explained the problem.
He had no owner.
The shelter was overcrowded.
And we might be able to take responsibility for him.
Catalina listened.
Then asked a question I wasn’t expecting.
“Rafi. Are you asking me?”
I swallowed.
“I’m asking you.”
Her answer came without hesitation.
“Bring him home.”
I stood in the parking lot holding my phone.
“Cat, the vet bill could be eight hundred dollars.”
“We have eight hundred dollars. Bring him home.”
I tried to say something else.
But she continued.
“We’ve been talking about getting a dog for two years. You found him. Bring him home.”
I started crying.
I’d spent the afternoon forcing myself to remain calm.
Crawling beneath a truck.
Carrying a critically ill puppy.
Making an emergency transport.
Watching a veterinary team fight to stabilize him.
But hearing my wife tell me to bring him home was the moment I finally broke down.
Then I asked to speak with our daughter.
The Six-Year-Old Who Named Him Twice
I heard Catalina call Luciana into the kitchen.
Little footsteps approached the phone.
Then came her voice.
“Yes, Papi?”
“Lucy, sweetheart, I found a puppy today.”
She became very quiet.
I explained that he’d been hurt.
The veterinarian was helping him.
And he needed a home.
“Lucy, would you like us to bring him home?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Then, in the serious voice only a six-year-old can manage when something matters enormously, she said:
“Papi. I have been waiting. Yes.”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
I told her the puppy would need to remain at the veterinary hospital overnight.
We could bring him home the next day if he was cleared.
Then I told her his name.
“Asphalt.”
She paused.
“Asphalt? Papi, that’s a weird name.”
“I know, Lucy. We can change it if you want.”
She thought about it.
Then said something I’ve never forgotten.
“Papi. Asphalt is a tough name. Asphalt is a name for a dog who survived. He should keep it.”
And that settled it.
I returned to the hospital.
Completed the necessary paperwork.
And made arrangements to collect him after his overnight treatment.
The veterinarian adjusted some of the charges, and I paid the final bill.
It was money I hadn’t planned to spend.
But as I looked at the puppy resting on the treatment table, I knew I’d made the right decision for our family.
Asphalt wasn’t going into another uncertain situation.
He was coming home with us.
His First Night in Our House
We brought Asphalt home on Wednesday, July 17, 2024.
He weighed approximately 4.2 pounds.
He was so small that Luciana could hardly believe he was going to become a real family dog.
Catalina had prepared a comfortable place for him in the living room.
A warm bed.
Food and water.
And a quiet area where he could recover.
We followed the veterinarian’s instructions closely.
His burned paws needed care.
He needed appropriate nutrition.
And he was still recovering from severe heat stress.
That first evening, he rested quietly.
We checked on him often.
Then, around two in the morning, I heard him crying.
I went into the living room.
He was awake in his bed.
Alone.
I sat beside him for a while.
Then carefully picked him up and carried him to our bedroom.
I settled back onto the bed with him resting against my chest.
Within moments, he fell asleep.
His breathing was quiet and steady.
I looked down at his little tan-and-white body.
Less than a day earlier, I’d been afraid he would die before we reached the emergency hospital.
Now he was sleeping peacefully in our house.
And for a moment, I didn’t want to move.
Asphalt eventually began sleeping at the foot of our bed.
It became his favorite nighttime place.
Some nights, he stayed close to Catalina.
Other nights, he settled near my feet.
And as he grew older, he occasionally decided Luciana’s bed was more comfortable.
We gave up trying to predict where he’d sleep.
He had become part of the family.
The Puppy Who Learned Everything Except Hot Pavement
Asphalt recovered well over the following weeks.
His paw pads healed.
He gained weight.
And his energy returned.
Before long, he was behaving like an ordinary puppy.
He chewed shoes.
Had a few accidents on the carpet.
And discovered that almost anything left within reach was worth investigating.
He learned to sit.
Then to come when called.
And eventually learned not to jump on Luciana.
We took him for regular veterinary checkups with Dr. Cesar Mendoza.
The veterinarian thought Asphalt was probably some kind of Heeler mix, possibly with Catahoula ancestry.
He estimated that Asphalt might eventually weigh around forty to forty-five pounds.
By October, Asphalt weighed about twenty-eight pounds.
His tan-and-white coat had filled out.
His body was stronger.
And his injured paws had largely recovered.
But Catalina noticed something.
Asphalt avoided hot pavement.
Whenever there was grass available, he preferred walking on it.
If the pavement was too warm, he sometimes stopped and refused to continue.
I couldn’t know whether he remembered the afternoon beneath the truck or was simply reacting to uncomfortable heat beneath his paws.
Either way, we respected it.
We changed our walking schedule.
Early mornings.
Late evenings.
And protective dog boots when necessary.
I never wanted him to experience that kind of heat-related injury again.
The little puppy who had nearly died on the asphalt was now growing into a healthy young dog.
And he had a family making sure his paws were safe.
The Day My Sergeant Called Me Into Her Office
On September 4, 2024, my supervisor, Sergeant Yolanda Hutchins, asked me to come into her office.
She’d been with the department for twenty-two years.
I’d worked under her supervision for four.
She was direct.
Professional.
And not particularly interested in wasting time.
There was a folder on her desk.
“Bermudez. Sit down.”
I sat.
She told me she’d reviewed my incident report from July 16.
The puppy rescue.
The dash-camera and body-camera footage.
And the dispatch audio.
I became nervous.
I’d transported an animal in an emergency while using officer discretion.
I knew those decisions had to be reviewed.
“Sarge, did I do something wrong?”
She stopped me.
“Bermudez. Listen.”
Then she went through what had happened.
I’d crawled beneath a truck on dangerously hot pavement.
Used my own shirt to protect the puppy.
Called dispatch.
Documented the situation.
And made the decision to seek immediate veterinary care rather than wait several hours for animal control.
Then she’d learned I’d taken responsibility for the dog myself.
Sergeant Hutchins looked at me.
She had nominated me for a department service award.
I stared at her.
“Sarge, I just pulled a puppy out from under a truck.”
She shook her head.
She believed the decision demonstrated the kind of judgment and compassion she wanted to recognize.
The ceremony would be held on October 15.
My family would be invited.
And the department wanted permission to share the story.
I didn’t know what to say.
Finally, I agreed.
When I left her office, I called Catalina.
She laughed when I told her.
Then said Luciana would be thrilled.
She was right.
Our daughter immediately wanted to know whether Asphalt could attend the ceremony too.
A Medal and a Dog in a Bow Tie
The award ceremony took place on October 15, 2024.
My family sat near the front.
Catalina was already emotional before the event began.
Luciana had dressed up for the occasion.
And Asphalt came along with special permission.
He was wearing a small navy-blue bow tie she’d chosen for him.
He sat beside her during the ceremony.
When my name was called, I walked to the front.
Chief Marcellus Trent presented the award.
He spoke about compassion, sound judgment, and public service.
He said he was proud of the way the incident had been handled.
People applauded.
I was supposed to say a few words.
I’d prepared almost nothing.
I looked toward my family.
Catalina was crying.
Luciana was sitting beside the dog who’d nearly died beneath a truck three months earlier.
And I thought about everyone who had helped.
Mateo, the gas station attendant who noticed the puppy and made the call.
Dr. Beecher-Solano and her veterinary team.
The dispatcher who logged my emergency decision.
My wife, who said to bring him home.
And my daughter, who thought Asphalt was a perfect name for a dog who survived.
Then I thought about my mother.
Esperanza Bermudez.
She had come to Lubbock from Reynosa, Mexico, as a young woman and spent many years cleaning houses while raising our family.
For two years, she’d been telling me I ought to get a dog.
She had a saying she liked to repeat in Spanish:
“Un hombre sin perro es un hombre que todavía no ha aprendido a compartir su vida.”
A man without a dog is a man who hasn’t yet learned how to share his life.
I’d always laughed when she said it.
I was a husband.
A father.
A police officer.
I thought I knew plenty about responsibility.
Then a tiny puppy arrived and showed me how much more of my life I could share.
At the podium, I thanked everyone who had helped.
I admitted that I’d almost decided bringing home another responsibility was too much.
Then I looked at Asphalt.
And said:
“I’m glad I didn’t.”
The room applauded.
Luciana held Asphalt close.
And the puppy, apparently unimpressed by police awards, fell asleep in her arms.
The People Asphalt Brought Into Our Lives
Over the following year, something happened that I hadn’t expected.
The people who helped rescue Asphalt became part of our lives.
Mateo continued checking on him.
He was studying to become a paramedic, and he’d sometimes text to ask how the dog was doing.
We eventually invited him to dinner.
Catalina made carne asada.
Mateo brought Asphalt a stuffed duck.
It became one of his favorite toys.
Dr. Beecher-Solano also remained a friend.
We kept her updated on Asphalt’s progress and were delighted to celebrate important moments in her own life.
My mother finally retired from cleaning houses.
She began taking classes at the community college.
And she visited us regularly.
Asphalt quickly learned to recognize those visits.
He liked her attention.
She loved spoiling him.
And Luciana was convinced he knew exactly which afternoons her grandmother was coming over.
At home, Asphalt continued growing.
He became a handsome, energetic young dog.
He enjoyed walks.
Played with Luciana.
And followed Catalina around the house.
His favorite sleeping place changed depending on which family member he wanted to be near.
There were nights when he slept at the foot of our bed.
Others when he curled up beside Luciana.
He wasn’t the tiny, helpless puppy I’d once held against my chest.
But sometimes, when he was tired, he’d still lean against me in a way that brought that afternoon back.
The heat.
The truck.
And the desperate drive toward the emergency hospital.
What Changed at the Police Department
The story also stayed with people at work.
After the award ceremony, the department developed a procedure that became known as the Bermudez Protocol.
It addressed emergency situations involving animals facing immediate threats to life, particularly during dangerous heat or cold.
The goal was to help officers act promptly while properly documenting their decisions and coordinating appropriate care.
In the months that followed, officers used the procedure in other animal emergencies.
Some involved animals suffering from heat.
Others involved situations where immediate assistance was needed before animal control could arrive.
Not every animal could be adopted by the responding officer.
That wasn’t the point.
The point was to recognize a serious animal emergency and respond appropriately.
When I heard about other dogs receiving help because officers had clearer procedures available, I thought about Asphalt.
He hadn’t understood anything about police policy.
He couldn’t know what dispatch meant.
Or why a patrol car had emergency lights.
He’d simply been a critically ill puppy who needed someone to reach him before it was too late.
I was glad his story had helped start a larger conversation about animal emergencies.
But the part that mattered most to me remained much simpler.
He was alive.
And every night, I got to see him sleeping comfortably in our home.
One Year After the Rescue
On July 16, 2025, exactly one year after I pulled Asphalt from beneath the truck, Catalina and I returned to the gas station.
Luciana came with us.
So did Asphalt.
Mateo met us there.
The afternoon was hot again.
The temperature was close to what it had been on the day of the rescue.
But this time, Asphalt was wearing protective boots.
We walked toward the place where the F-150 had been parked a year earlier.
I looked down at the pavement.
I remembered kneeling there.
Reaching beneath the truck.
And pulling out a puppy whose body was so weak that I feared he wouldn’t survive.
Then Mateo showed us something.
He’d arranged to have a small bronze plaque made.
The store owner, Mr. Calvin Whitehead, had agreed to display it near the parking area.
The plaque described the rescue.
The date.
The extreme heat.
The young puppy.
And the officer who had carried him out from beneath the truck.
Its message was simple.
Stopping to help a small life can matter more than we realize.
Mateo had paid for it himself.
He was proud of the dog who’d survived.
And he wanted other people to remember that dangerous pavement and extreme heat can be life-threatening for animals.
I stood beside him and looked at the plaque.
Then at Asphalt.
My daughter held his leash.
Catalina stood nearby.
And the young man who’d first called for help was now a close friend.
A year earlier, we’d been strangers trying to save a dying puppy.
Now we were standing together as people connected by that afternoon.
I took a photograph.
Today, it’s framed in our living room.
The Story Luciana Always Asks Me to Tell
Luciana still asks me to tell the story of how we found Asphalt.
She knows most of it by heart.
But she likes hearing it anyway.
She wants to know about the truck.
And Mateo.
And the veterinarian.
She always asks whether Asphalt really fell asleep on my chest.
“Yes, Lucy,” I tell her. “He did.”
Then she asks how hot the pavement was.
I explain that it was dangerously hot and that dogs’ paws can be injured by surfaces people don’t realize are so dangerous.
She looks toward Asphalt.
Sometimes he’s sleeping.
Sometimes he’s carrying the stuffed duck Mateo gave him.
Sometimes he’s stretched out on the floor, completely comfortable.
And I remind her that many people helped make that possible.
Mateo noticed the puppy and called.
I responded and brought him to the hospital.
The veterinary team saved his life.
Catalina agreed to bring him home.
And Luciana gave him a name that became part of our family.
Then I tell her something I hope she remembers when she’s older.
“Lucy, when you grow up, there will be days when you’re busy. When you’re tired. When you have a hundred reasons to keep going.”
She listens.
“And sometimes, you’ll see somebody who needs help. Maybe a person. Maybe an animal.”
I tell her that she won’t always be able to solve every problem herself.
But she can notice.
She can call the right people.
And when it’s safe and appropriate, she can help.
I tell her about Mateo.
A nineteen-year-old working at a gas station.
He could have ignored the puppy.
He could have assumed somebody else would make the call.
Instead, he paid attention.
And because he did, a police officer arrived while there was still time.
Then I tell her:
“Never think something is too small to matter.”
She nods.
And every time, she says:
“Papi. I will.”
The Dog at the Foot of My Bed
When people hear that I received an award for rescuing Asphalt, they sometimes make me sound braver than I feel.
They picture a police officer crawling beneath a truck on blistering pavement.
A dying puppy.
A rushed drive to an emergency hospital.
And a dramatic rescue.
Those things happened.
But they aren’t the moments I think about most.
I remember Mateo standing beside my cruiser with a bowl of water and a damp towel.
I remember Dr. Beecher-Solano holding out her arms when I entered the hospital.
I remember sitting on the treatment room floor after she told me the puppy would live.
I remember Catalina saying, “Bring him home.”
And Luciana telling me that Asphalt was a good name for a dog who survived.
I remember the first night he cried in our living room.
How I carried him to our bedroom.
How his tiny body settled against my chest.
And how quickly he fell asleep once he was close to someone.
Asphalt grew.
His paws healed.
His coat filled out.
And the dog who once weighed just over four pounds became a strong, healthy member of our family.
He still prefers grass when the pavement is hot.
He still likes the stuffed duck Mateo gave him.
He still follows my mother around when she visits.
And he still wants to know where everyone in the family is before settling for the night.
Sometimes he sleeps beside Luciana.
Sometimes he chooses our bedroom.
And on quiet nights, I wake up and feel the familiar weight of him resting near my feet.
I look down and remember the puppy who was barely breathing beneath a truck.
The one I wrapped in my uniform shirt.
The one whose tongue had turned purple.
The one I feared might die before we reached the hospital.
Now he’s here.
Warm.
Safe.
And sleeping.
I spent nine years learning how to respond when people needed help.
But that little dog taught me something I hadn’t fully understood.
Sometimes, the most important part of doing your job is noticing when the situation calls for something more.
A young gas station attendant noticed.
A veterinarian acted.
My family opened our home.
And a puppy named Asphalt got the chance to grow up.
I don’t know how many times I’ll tell Luciana this story.
Probably hundreds.
But whenever she asks, I always make sure she understands one thing.
I wasn’t the only person who saved him.
It took a young man who cared enough to call, a medical team that refused to give up, and a family willing to say, “Bring him home.”
And tonight, the puppy we saved on a 109-degree afternoon in Texas will sleep in a comfortable house, surrounded by people who love him.
The same puppy who once lay helpless on burning pavement.
The same little dog who fell asleep against my chest before I knew whether he’d make it.
His name is Asphalt.
And he’s the best unexpected thing that ever came home from one of my shifts.
Editor’s Note: The characters in this story are fictional. Through these stories, we hope to share the intelligence, loyalty, compassion, and loving nature of dogs with people everywhere.
