It began as a lighthearted moment.
The day I brought her home, she was tiny—no bigger than my forearm—with oversized paws, droopy ears, and eyes that seemed too large for her little face. I stopped by the pet store to grab the essentials—food, a collar, maybe a toy or two—and on a whim, I gently placed her in the shopping cart for a cute photo.
She adored it. Sat proudly like royalty. I snapped a picture and posted it to Instagram with a silly caption like, “She already owns me.” Everyone loved it.
I assumed it was a one-time thing.
But every time we returned to that store after that, she flat-out refused to walk in. She’d freeze at the entrance, giving me this look like, “You know the drill.”
She grew quickly—alarmingly so.
And the cart? She barely squeezes into it now. People gawk. Employees chuckle. But I still push her around in it, because it’s become our thing—me, wheeling around this giant Great Dane who looks like she could file my taxes, lounging regally on her zebra-print blanket.
But today wasn’t like the others.
Halfway down the leash aisle, she suddenly stood up in the cart—stiff and alert. Ears perked. Eyes locked on something.
I turned to see an older man at the end of the aisle. Completely still.
Staring at her.
Then he murmured something under his breath. Just one word.
Her old name.
The name I’d never shared with anyone.
My heart jumped. I glanced at her—she was tense, tail twitching anxiously against the cart. Her reaction said it all: she remembered him.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though I failed. He blinked, startled, like he didn’t expect to be noticed. Slowly, he began walking toward us. Up close, he looked worn—gray hair under a weathered baseball cap, deep lines across his face. His hands shook slightly as he lifted one, not quite touching her, just… reaching.
“You’re not…” he began, then stopped. “Is this Luna?”
My stomach sank. That was the name on the tag attached to her kennel when I adopted her. I’d renamed her Daisy because it felt lighter, more fitting. But no one else should’ve known about Luna.
“How do you know her?” I asked, my grip on the cart tightening. Daisy—or Luna—leaned closer to me, uneasy. Whatever history they shared clearly wasn’t simple.
The man exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “She used to be mine,” he said softly. “Until I had no choice but to give her up.”
For a moment, everything went quiet except the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant noise of other customers. My thoughts raced. Who gives up a dog like Daisy? How could he let her go…