It is Friday, not any Friday, but Good Friday, 2020. Quarantine and social distancing have been the norm for a month. All days seem the same, though there’s something special about today: we’re adopting you from foster care.
Four months old, black, white splotches in your breast and paws, and brown undercoat, you were born in the streets and had a few rough first weeks of life until you were rescued and taken with your mom and three siblings to a family in our neighborhood.
In the backyard of their house, you hide behind your brothers, as little as you, boisterous. They run to our feet and bark their greeting; we are the strangers who break the recommended isolation guidelines to pay them a visit.
Once they disperse, you sit up on your hind legs, x-raying us for danger with curious black eyes and one raised flappy ear. I come closer and offer my hand. You smell it thoroughly before I meet your approval. I hold you in my arms.
We leave, my husband, my son—your new family—and you, who have become the brightest star to shine a light during the dark times of the present Covid-19 fright.
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