Wordswoman

I had this quirkly SF story idea, in which a time traveler brings Richard Thompson to a future where he's got billions of fans, while the talentless pretenders who eclipsed him in his own time are forgotten.

Only the time travel part is implausible.

Today, during my dog-walking stint at Minnesota Valley Humane Society, I held in my arms the trembling, abused, neglected proof of human evil.

She was a four-month-old pit bull puppy, so skinny her ribs stood out. There were sores on her little body, probably skin irritations caused by living in her own waste for God knows how long. She was abandoned in the MVHS parking lot at night, in a filthy crate, small and hungry and alone.

When I knelt down in her kennel to put the leash on her for a walk, she cowered, shaking, her tail between her legs but still trying to wag. I carried her outside to a picnic table, where she snuggled in my arms until the trembling passed.

She licked my face.

Tonight the pup is safe, clean, and warm. But somewhere out there is a waste of skin and breath, a soulless excuse for a human being who may still have other animals to abuse.

I wish him ill.