I’d ordinarily have a picture here, a picture of the Scout on a flatbed truck at the end of my driveway, waiting to make a right turn into traffic and out of my life. I’d have a picture of that here, but it wouldn’t capture the ache in my heart at the sight of my girl being taken away, or the sick feeling that I let her down for the last three years because I couldn’t afford to keep her under a roof, someplace warm and dry, so that her cancer wouldn’t get exponentially worse to the point where both doors wouldn’t open. I had to crawl into the liftgate to make sure the transmission was in neutral for the tow truck guy, and that old familiar smell of rubber, vinyl, oil and dirt hit me, the one that made me feel good when I got in and she fired right up, choppy and unsure, until the 30-year-old engine warmed up and flattened to a smooth purr. No picture could capture the feeling of freedom and youth that I felt when coasting down the highway with the top down, barely able to hear myself think over the dull roar of the engine and the whistle of the wind. No picture I took could have described the pang of guilt I felt when I saw that the left rear tire was dragging, leaving a skidmark on the driveway as the guy winched her onto the flatbed, as if to say, I don’t want to leave. I’ve tried to post the last picture I have of her along with the first, but the fucking Internet is slow as dogshit today. I have many pictures of my Scout, and that’s all I have left. She’s on to a good home, where she’ll be restored and loved and treated well, and I have to console myself with that.