Rocky
“Mom said, as she drove toward home, “this Albert person really was not such a bad guy. I think he just got in over his head. He had no idea how much responsibility it is to own a dog.”
Lizzie put a hand on Rocky’s head. “Still,” she said. “Didn’t he care at all about where Rocky ended up?”
“He did,” Mom said. “He told me he was planning to have a long talk with anybody who called. He was going to ask the right questions, about whether they’d had a dog before and how they planned to care for a puppy. All that stuff.”
Lizzie sniffed and looked out the window. “Well, that’s good.” She still wasn’t so sure about Albert Lowell, but what did it matter anymore? “We’ve got you now,” she whispered into Rocky’s little rosebud-shaped ear. He snorted in his sleep, and his ear twitched. Lizzie smiled. Now the Petersons were fostering this puppy, and that meant they would keep him safe and sound and happy until they could find him the perfect forever home.
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