As the guards led me down that dark, dank hallway, it was really beginning to set in: These walls were the only ones I'd see for the next three and a half dog years. The other inmates stared as I walked by, keenly aware that a celebrity was in their midst. But here, in the pound, my gold records and Grammy statuette meant nothing. After fumbling with his keys, the guard slid open my cell door, took off my leash and shoved me inside. This was my new home. It was tiny, with barely enough room for me to do my daily circular pug-sprint exercises. One wall was covered with hundreds of little marks, each with four vertical lines and then a diagonal slash. Someone had been counting the days -- for a long time.
Then I was startled by a loud noise, a cross between a snore and a groan. I wheeled about. There, on one of the cell's two doggy beds, was the oldest pug I had ever seen.
To be continued