Today the puppies are twelve weeks old. We got them on the same day, so they're just like brothers. They're like my children. And he knows that, too.
But last week my husband blew up worse than he ever had before. I was scared he might kill me—or himself. Luckily, the police took him seriously, and he's in the psychiatric unit for a few days. As soon as they took him away, I came to the shelter. I had to leave the pups at home—animals aren't allowed at the shelter. But I go and see them every day, and a friend is checking on them.
Yesterday he called the shelter from the hospital. He figured I must be here. He left a message for me.
"Tell her, when I get out of here, I'm coming home—and I'm killing those pups."
He'd do it. There's no doubt. He'd do it.
