Chapter 1
For eight years, a Pomeranian had been part of my family, until it bit my daughter, Sally Foster.
Tears streamed down Sally's face as she pointed to the clear bite marks on her arm. Heartbroken as I was, I made the painful decision to have the dog put down via euthanasia.
In its final moments, the dog strained to lift its head. It lapped weakly at my hand with its last bit of strength, its eyes filled with raw, desperate pleading.
Teary-eyed, I whispered, "Good boy. The pain will be over soon."
Three days later, the doctor removed something from deep inside Sally's wound.
He handed me a clear plastic evidence bag, his tone grave. "This was extracted from the bottom of the bite wound. You need to see this for yourself."
The moment I took the bag into my hands, my entire body froze stiff with shock.
*****
Warm afternoon sunlight draped over everything, soft enough to lull the soul into quiet ease.
Streaming through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, it spilled gently across the wooden floor, glistening like melted honey in a soft golden glow.
My name was Emily Wayne. Seated at my writing desk, I focused intently on going through an online contract.
In the living room, my daughter Sally lay sprawled on the carpet, absorbed in building blocks, lost in delight.
Our eight-year-old Pomeranian, Snowball, lay quietly at her feet, mild and docile as ever.
Snowball boasted a coat of pure snow-white fluffy fur, like a soft cloud of cotton candy, always warm to the touch.
It had been part of our family for eight years.
It had quietly witnessed every pivotal, precious moment of my life: my marriage to Michael Foster, my pregnancy and waiting period, and the day Sally was born into the world.
To me, it was never merely a pet. It was an irreplaceable family.
The crisp clack of keyboard strokes echoed clearly through the room.
Now and then, Sally's bell-like laughter rang out, pure and melodic.
Snowball let out a lazy yawn, slowly tucking its head onto its paws, drifting into a deep, tranquil sleep.
Everything was calm and perfect. It was a quiet life of peace and stability, until a shrill scream sliced sharply through the serenity.
"Ah!" It was Sally's voice, raw with heart-wrenching fear and piercing pain.
My heart constricted abruptly, squeezed tight by an invisible hand. I shot up from my chair and rushed straight into the living room.
Sally sat huddled on the carpet, crying hysterically, her small frame trembling nonstop.
She held her right arm aloft; two clear bite marks marred her skin, quickly flushing red and oozing tiny beads of blood.
Building blocks lay scattered and overturned across the floor, knocked aside in frantic panic.
Snowball cowered in the corner, its whole body trembling violently, low whimpers rumbling in its throat, small, helpless, and dejected.
Its eyes were filled with overwhelming terror and unease, stripped entirely of its usual gentleness.
My mind buzzed into a blank daze, my breath catching in my throat for several seconds.
How could this happen?
Snowball had never bitten anyone before. Even around strangers, it would only shrink away timidly, never acting aggressively.
It rarely even barked loudly, behaving sensibly and well-behaved.
"Sally, don't be scared. Let Mommy check you. I'm right here," I said.
I then hurried over, crouched down, and cradled my daughter's arm with the utmost care, afraid of hurting her with the slightest rough move.
The wound was not deep, yet terrifying and agonizing enough for a five-year-old child.
Sally sobbed uncontrollably, her little face flushed crimson, tears streaming down like unstrung pearls.
"Mommy, it hurts. It hurts so bad. Snowball bit me. Bad Snowball! It's a bad dog!" she said.
Sharp pricks of sorrow and chaos pierced my heart all at once.
I stroked Sally gently to soothe her tears, then stared at Snowball huddled in the corner, utterly baffled.
Why had it bitten Sally out of nowhere, with no warning at all?
I scanned the surroundings quickly. There were no sharp toys nearby, nor had Sally pulled its fur or teased it relentlessly.
Everything had been peaceful, with nothing to provoke it in the slightest.
I held Sally tightly and hurried to the bathroom, taking iodine to disinfect her wound with meticulous tenderness.
Sally's loud cries subsided into quiet sniffling, yet a crushing weight settled in my chest, dragging my spirits down.
After cleaning the wound and wrapping it in clean gauze, I carried Sally back to the living room.
Snowball remained frozen in the same spot, huddled in the corner like an abandoned statue, motionless.
At our approach, it trembled even harder, tucking its head lower as if trying to burrow into the crack of the wall.
It seemed to understand clearly that it had made an irreversible mistake.
My fingers trembled slightly as I pulled out my phone, ready to call my husband Michael and tell him what had happened.
Just then, the door lock clicked softly, and the front door opened.
Michael had returned early from his business trip, one day ahead of schedule.
The moment he stepped inside and saw Sally's tear-reddened face and the gauze wrapped around her arm, his expression darkened instantly.
"What happened? What's wrong with Sally?" His voice held urgency, edged with a faint, barely concealed anger.
"Daddy, Snowball bit me. It bit my arm, and it hurts so much," Sally spoke through thick sobs, pouring out her grievance.
Michael's gaze turned icy cold in an instant, sharp as a blade fixed straight on Snowball in the corner.
He strode over without a word, grabbing Snowball roughly by the scruff of its neck.
Snowball writhed in terror, letting out a short, shrill yelp that tugged painfully at my heart.
"Michael, stop! Let it go!" I cried out in flustered panic.
"Stop?" Michael's tone was ice-cold, devoid of any warmth. "You ask me to stop?"
He tossed Snowball harshly into the balcony cage, slamming the cage door shut and locking it firmly. "Emily, we can't keep this dog any longer."