The woman who met the dog

Her name is Karen. The dog's name is Biscuit. He's twelve.

We met her outside Woolworths in West End. She was sitting on the kerb with Biscuit across her lap, a cardboard sign leaning against her knee. The sign asked for help with vet bills.

The pot that week was $45. I asked her what she needed. She said Biscuit's medicine — twenty-something dollars a month, a pill for his arthritis. We walked to the pharmacy together. Paid for two months up front. I gave her the rest in cash for food.

"He's all I have," she said. Biscuit wagged his tail.

That was the pin, on the ground, that week.