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Her Dog Bit Your Son

Mia has been your best friend since college. She's the godmother of your six-year-old, Leo.

At her birthday barbecue, her big doodle, Rocco, nipped Leo's arm under the picnic table.

Not deep. No stitches. But Leo screamed, and everyone saw.

Mia pulls you aside, shaking. Rocco already got a warning last year for snapping at a jogger.

One more report, she says, and Rocco could be taken away from her for good.

At urgent care, the nurse asks what happened. Your phone buzzes. Mia: "Please. Don't say dog."

What do you tell her?

The story so far

Leo is sitting on the paper-covered bed, swinging his sneakers, already bored. He has a juice box and a sticker of a fire truck, and the tiny red mark on his forearm is smaller than a quarter. He's more upset that he missed the cake. The nurse has a clipboard and kind eyes and a pen hovering over a box. Your phone keeps buzzing in your pocket. Mia, again and again. "Please." "He's my whole life." "I'll pay for everything." You think about Rocco asleep on Mia's couch the night her dad died, his huge head in her lap for six hours. You also think about the jogger. The nurse clears her throat, smiling, waiting.

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