[ WP ] A pet was stolen from you some months ago . When you find it again you are faced with a moral dilemma - take it back because it is yours , or leave it because it was adopted out as a therapy pet keeping a drug addict clean .

Look at her eyes. They are drooped and begging and almost pure. 
 
 I was led to a halfway house. Reunited with an old friend, who they call Mary now. And she had moved on, found a new lover, licked his face, rolled on her stomach for him, but she still recognized me. My scent was burned into her. My hands were shaking when we embraced. Old loves hurt the hardest. 
 
 I didn ’ t know the man, but he looked as if his veins were tied up and connected to Mary ’ s fur, scrunched all tiny where the hairs couldn ’ t be told apart from the human with his dirt blood. A needle stuck from out from under the pillow in the room. 
 
 I remember when the fur didn ’ t pull veins. I remember it the best nestled in a lit up tree in December. I was miserable. I was torn. My father lived in New York, my mother California, with me. My sister lived beneath a monolith in a park, veins connected to dirt, to the stench of warm, molded needles. 
 
 The man tensed, eyes drooped, begging, almost pure. Pillows and needles and Mary leaving behind dirty names. I was torn. For a moment. 
 
 To Louise, to Mary, let him walk you with his veins while you clean him with the joy you stuffed beneath my face on those nights I couldn ’ t close. To Louise, to Mary, merry Christmas, you ’ ll save another life. 

