My plan was simple: bury my dad, dump his dog, and disappear. Rusty had a different plan—and a leather pouch full of secrets. I planned to drop Rusty off at the county shelter the morning after Dad’s funeral. I told myself it was mercy. Dad was gone, and this arthritic Golden Retriever was just a walking rug of grief that I couldn’t take back to my condo in Chicago. Dad—Frank “The Tank” Miller—wasn’t the type of man you missed warmly. He was a Vietnam vet who spoke in grunts, kept his blinds dra