Brodi Ashton: My dog should be president

The furry thing showed up on our doorstep when I was just 12 years old. He was starving, beaten and desperate. His ribs were jutting out of his chest, and he seemed to choose our porch as his final resting place. His back leg had a wound and buckshot pieces embedded in it.I did what any 12-year-old in the ’80s would do. Without a care in the world for things like rabies, or teeth, or stranger danger, I approached him cautiously and placed a bowl of milk in front of him. He lapped it up, an