At 8 PM in the freezing rain, I returned from a 3-year tour with a prosthetic leg and my service dog. Dad blocked the door. “We don’t run a kennel or a nursing home,” he spat. Sister
I picked up my cane. “Heel, Buster,” I commanded. The dog glued himself to my side as we walked slowly back down the driveway to the waiting taxi. I sat in a motel room that smelled of mildew and industrial cleaner. The wallpaper was peeling, and the neon sign outside buzzed with a rhythmic, headache-inducing…
