This face:
And this story.
Azaiah immediately took to the dog, whom he named RaeLee (pronounced “Riley”). Segovia and her sons bought the dog a collar, leash, ball and brown bed from the dollar store, and all that day, Azaiah played with the dog, laughing gleefully whenever RaeLee licked his face. “Don’t fall in love with him,” Segovia warned.
Segovia and Savige made 4,000 FOUND flyers with the dog’s picture, stuffed mailboxes and put an ad on Craigslist. When no one called, RaeLee stayed the night at the Segovias’ house. His dog bed was placed in the living room, but when the boys climbed into their twin beds, RaeLee dragged his bed down the long hallway and bunked with the boys in their room.
By Saturday — four days later — no one had called to claim RaeLee, and he was still living with the Segovias. The honey-colored terrier had started responding to his new name. He almost never barked, loved playing rambunctiously with Azaiah, and was tender with Christian.
One afternoon, the dog settled himself on the floor near Christian as he watched a “Barney” video in his room. Segovia was outside watering the plants when the placid moment was shattered by the sound of RaeLee crashing into the screen door and barking crazily. Alarmed, Segovia opened the door, only to have the dog race back through the house towards the boys’ room. Segovia followed, screaming when she caught sight of her son. Christian was “slumped over, his body writhing in a seizure, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.” RaeLee stood next to him yelping, but suddenly went quiet when Yolanda reached down to hold her son.
“If he hadn’t come to get me,” Segovia said, “the neurologist said Christian would have choked on his own blood and died.” The dog, she decided, was a keeper.
