Because of Winn-Dixi

He was standing there all red-faced, screaming and waving his arms around.

He skidded to a stop and smiled right at me.

I hollered.

“Please,” said the manager, “somebody call the pound.”

And that dog came trotting over to me just like he had been doing it his whole life.

He was big, but skinny; you could see his ribs.

And there were bald patches all over him, places where he didn’t have any fur at all.

He smiled so big that it made him sneeze.

I also told him about the preacher and how he was a good man, even if he was too distracted with sermons and prayers and suffering people to go grocery shopping.

And I have to admit, he stank.

He was kind of limping like something was wrong with one of his legs.

Sometimes he reminded me of a turtle hiding inside its shell, in there thinking about things and not ever sticking his head out into the world.

Winn-Dixie’s ears shot up in the air and he grinned and sneezed, and then he came limping up the steps and into the trailer and put his head right in the preacher’s lap, right on top of a pile of papers.

Winn-Dixie’s ears shot up in the air and he grinned and sneezed, and then he came limping up the steps and into the trailer and put his head right in the preacher’s lap, right on top of a pile of papers.

Winn-Dixie’s ears shot up in the air and he grinned and sneezed, and then he came limping up the steps and into the trailer and put his head right in the preacher’s lap, right on top of a pile of papers.

He looked at his ribs and his matted-up fur and the places where he was bald.

He pulled back his lips and showed the preacher all of his crooked yellow teeth and wagged his tail and knocked some of the preacher’s papers off the table.

He was making him poke his head out of his shell.

“Well,” said the preacher, “he’s a stray if ever I’ve seen one.”

He put down his pencil and scratched Winn-Dixie behind the ears.

I used the garden hose and some baby shampoo.

I nodded my head at him and went on talking.