Dear Wigleaf,

these words feel like my own. They do.

But once, when I was 17, I saw a dog running unleashed along the street. I left the car door open, engine running, and chased him onto a lawn, grabbed the skin of his neck, guided him into my car and slammed the door. He stood in the seat, legs shaking over the bumps and curves of the back road. At home, he pawed the edge of the tub as I scrubbed his matted fur, snipped the locks with a kitchen scissors and then made all the calls while he stared at me, sad-eyed, under a ratty towel. Mom, Animal Shelters, Police. That night, before I brought him to sleep in my bed, wet nose against my cheek, a woman called.

When I pulled up to the address to return him, I let him hop out into her arms. Her sleeves still scattered with his fur. Thank you, she said, we didn't even think he'd left. I watched her carry him up the same lawn from where I'd grabbed him hours before, batting his tail.

Dear Wigleaf, I guess what I am trying to say is that even at 17, I thought I was a savior, but really—I'm a thief.