More Than Neighbors. Janice Johnson Kay
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want one to have to sit in the car, all by himself, while we’re shopping.”
It had turned out that the one balmy day was pure trickery; late April in Stevens County was cold, not springlike at all. A new puppy would be more likely to freeze than overheat if left for any length of time in a car. There were other dire possibilities, though. She wouldn’t be thrilled if their new dog ripped up the upholstery of the van. Howling nonstop wouldn’t be great, either.
“Lots of stores you can take your dog in, you know,” he informed her, trailing her to her bedroom.
She could just imagine. Odds were he’d choose a puppy. One that didn’t know how to walk on a leash yet. Oh, and would piddle anywhere and everywhere. Part of her really wanted to insist they bring home an adult dog, but she’d already made up her mind to let Mark make the decision, within reason. He was a kid; kids were entitled to experience the fun of owning a puppy.
“Let’s shop first anyway,” she said.
* * *
CIARA SNEAKED ANOTHER look in her rearview mirror, which revealed the same astounding sight as the last peek had, ten seconds before.
She and Mark were going home with not one dog, but two. And it was her fault.
At least both were adults, she consoled herself, snapping her gaze back to the unwinding road ahead. Theoretically potty trained.
Horse trained, now that was another story.
Watson’s information suggested he was a Labrador retriever-hound mix. Read: mutt. He was short-haired, chocolate-brown, with a white chin, chest and three white paws. The history—or maybe it was a wild guess—said he was two and a half years old. In theory, past the chewing-everything-up stage. He clearly had plenty of youthful energy, though. The moment Mark was allowed inside the kennel with Watson, he’d leaped up high enough to cover Mark’s face with his tongue. Mark had erupted in giggles.
“He’s supposed to be great with cats and definitely is with other dogs,” the attendant told her encouragingly. “A little obedience training wouldn’t be a bad thing, but he really wants to please. I suspect if he’s told what’s not acceptable firmly enough, he’ll learn quickly. Our volunteers who walk the dogs have been pleased with his attitude.”
“What about horses?” Ciara had asked, remembering the steel in Gabe Tennert’s voice saying, Please make sure it’s one that won’t chase horses or cattle. No flexibility there. She wasn’t sure he’d understand the concept of a learning curve.
The attendant gazed at the same information Ciara could see. “I’m afraid we have no idea,” she admitted.
Ciara had retreated to let Mark get better acquainted with Watson, and shortly found herself back in front of a kennel where an elderly dog named Daisy lay with her chin resting on her front paws, her eyes, slightly clouded with cataracts, fixed on each visitor who stopped. Upon seeing Ciara back for a second time, she thumped her tail a couple of times but didn’t bother getting up. Ciara wasn’t sure whether that was because she’d lost hope, or because her obvious arthritis and excessive weight made heaving herself up more effort than she went to without a clear reward.
The attendant had trailed her. “Daisy is such a sweetie. But given her age...”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. Daisy was a shepherd mix. At eleven-plus years, she wouldn’t appeal to many potential adopters.
Ciara found her gaze fixed on the card that said, Good with cats and dogs.
No, she told herself. The dog was for Mark, not her. He needed a pet that could keep up with him, that was fun.
Daisy’s tail thumped a couple more times, and she hoisted herself to her feet. Her gait was rather stiff when she came forward to allow herself to be patted.
“She’d do well on glucosamine,” the other woman said. “Her owner was elderly, and I suspect she didn’t have much chance for exercise.”
This is too big a commitment to make out of pity, Ciara told herself, with what she hoped was resolution.
“I want Watson,” Mark said, right behind her.
The attendant started. “Oh! Did you latch the kennel door?”
“Yes, but he didn’t like it when I left.”
A mournful howl rose, which started a sympathetic barrage of barks and howls from other shelter dogs. Daisy’s ears twitched, but she only wagged her tail a couple more times.
“Crap,” Ciara mumbled.
“Mom! You won’t let me say that.”
And that’s when the attendant suggested craftily, “You know, dogs are pack animals. They love having a dog companion as well as a human family. If you’d consider taking two, I’m sure we can waive Daisy’s adoption fee, given that she’s a senior and her chances—” She took a quick look at Mark and changed her mind about what she was saying. “Given her age.”
And so it was that Mark was buckled into the middle of the backseat and had not one, but two dogs draped over him. Watson had bounded into the car. It had taken two of them to lift Daisy so high.
A little late, it occurred to Ciara that they’d bought a reasonable amount of food for one dog. For two, they should have bought more. Plus, Daisy should probably be on a diet formulated specifically for seniors, and Ciara could already envision the hassle of getting each dog to eat his or her own food instead of the other’s.
She sighed.
Daisy’s tail thumped against the door. Or maybe it was Watson’s. Or both.
Mark laughed, and Ciara’s mouth curved into a reluctant smile.
Hey, on the good-news front: one of the two dogs crowded on the backseat wouldn’t be interested in tearing around the pasture chasing horses.
* * *
GOD DAMN IT.
The sharp sound of a whinny had brought Gabe out onto his back porch Saturday morning before he’d had more than a couple swallows of his coffee.
Both horses bolted across the pasture, manes and tails flying, and right behind them came a brown bullet.
A dog.
An expletive came out of his mouth even as he took off at a run for the pasture.
He didn’t bother with the gate, instead planting a hand on the top rail and vaulting over. Hoodoo and Aurora spun past him, the dog in close pursuit. He whistled sharply, and the dog actually hesitated then stopped. The animal’s whole body swung with its tail. A long, pink tongue lolled out.
“Come,” Gabe snapped, and to his mild surprise the dog obeyed. Gabe was able to wrap his fingers around what appeared to be a brand-new collar, from which two shiny, silver-colored tags dangled. One was the expected rabies tag; the other, bone-shaped, gave the dog’s name as Watson and his owner’s name as Mark Malloy. The phone number was now familiar to Gabe.
Not letting go of the collar, Gabe walked the dog out of the pasture, in the side door of his garage and popped him into the cab of his pickup. Hoping like hell the damn animal wasn’t still young enough to want to chew whatever was in front of him—say, the seat upholstery—Gabe hurried back to the house to grab his wallet and keys.
When he returned to the pickup, Watson barked happily, slopped a big kiss on his face before he could evade it and thrust his nose out the window when Gabe lowered it a few inches to entertain him during the short drive.
His jaw ached from clenching his teeth by the time he pulled up in front of the neighboring house. Ciara burst out the front door before he could get out.
“Oh, no!” she said. “Watson went to your house?”
Despite his severe aggravation, he couldn’t help noticing how gracefully she moved, and how much he liked