OCTOBER 20, 2022 Share I don’t know why my mom named him Hitler. Hitler was the sweetest, best friend anyone could have. He would make sure that when I had a bad day at school, he’d do a sprint up the doggy stairs next to my bed and lay down right beside me. There was nothing I loved more in this world than cuddling with Hitler, and feeling his tiny, wet, little brown nose poke me on the cheek when he knew I’d been crying. “Sandy! You’re going to be late!” Linda screamed. She was sitting in the kitchen, most likely smoking a cigarette and drinking Diet Coke. I fumbled out of bed and watched Hitler hop down his doggy steps. His tiny legs moved quickly, and as I flung on my unwashed jeans and a sweat-shirt I watched Hitler let out a tiny bark. His tiny nose shook as he spoke, and I went and kissed him straight on the head. “Come’on, Hitler… We’re going to miss the bus…” I said, before I threw my homework into my backpack and flew...