Portrait of Betsy

She wasn’t a dog anyone wanted. Bald from the nape
of her neck to the tip of her tail, she was a scrawny
little black dog with little to recommend herself to
anyone other than the little tricks she used to perform to
amuse people. A loser dog.
But then, I wasn’t a person anyone wanted either. A loser
in the eyes of the world. A ne’er do well named Jamie
Fairchild, who, at the age of forty-one, had tried his luck
in many places and invariably had failed. For twenty
years, I had become a stranger even...