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Father and son
remained in the hot, black Plymouth, windows open, and waited. They listened to the raucous sound of barking dogs. They breathed in the ammonia stink from the barnyard. It was high summer – humid, caustic, and the sun made the boy crinkle his eyelids.
Today they were going to buy a puppy from a farmer who bred German Shepherds. The father called them police dogs, and at last he was able to own one. He had started a promising new government job. The War was long over. Soon, his son would turn seven.
The boy leaned out the passenger side window. He balanced on his sharp knees and bounced and rocked, to and fro. His skinny buttocks swayed. Where were the puppies? The only dogs he could see were large, ferocious ones in a wire run. They looked to him as big as ponies, but mean, and they bellowed at the intruders.
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