Don't chase the rabbit
Tig was more than half-drunk when he stumbled out of the Clubhouse. It was late. He was reeling. He half-felt like dying. Maybe riding until dawn swallowed him and his bike whole on the side of a road. Must be another goddamn Sunday night.
As his feet stuttered to his bike, he reared back and threw his empty beer, far. Into nothing. At least, he’d thought it was nothing. Until he heard a yelp. His feet came to a stop, he knit his eyebrows in confusion, and then stepped closer to the sound.
She was curled up by one of the trash cans. Chewing through a black bag for food. The glass from his bottle was scattered on the floor, a shard caught in her paw. When she saw him, her ears went back, half-defensive, half-aggressive, and she made a low threatening noise, but finished it with a whimper.
He crouched down. “Hey girl…it’s okay…c’mere—” Carefully, he reached over, let her sniff his hand, and then tendered to her split paw. Tig took Missy home that night, cleaned her, fed her, and fell in love.