Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“They’re orphans?” I echo, but I heard the other part of what he said too. Kyle volunteers at a dog rescue. Could he be any more perfect? I’m not sure that’d be possible.
He nods. “Effectively. Their mama didn’t do well with delivery and rejected them, but Maggie has a dog who’s already nursing her own litter, and it’s small enough that she might take these too. She’s been an adoptive dog mom before so she’s pretty open, but if not, Maggie will bottle feed them.”
Feeling tears threatening to spill, I lift my eyes from the box of adorable puppies and meet Kyle’s as he glances over his shoulder at me.
“It’s okay. It’s a good thing. Their mama will get time to recover and heal, and these pups will get taken care of one way or another. That’s what matters.” Peanut Butter barks his agreement, and the puppies start to whine. “Hang on, we’re almost there.”
Kyle speeds up a little, like he wants to get the puppies to their adoptive mom and Maggie as quickly as he can, and a few minutes later, he pulls up to a big metal fence well outside town and honks his horn twice. The gate starts to swing open, and Kyle pulls through and parks behind another truck.
A woman is already on her way out to meet us so Kyle rolls his window down and lifts his hand to wave. “Hey, Maggie. Call me a stork because I’ve got a special delivery for you.”
Maggie looks to be in her late sixties, with grayed out blonde hair that she’s wearing in a single braid that reaches to her belt and kind eyes surrounded by crow’s feet. She’s got on baggy jeans, a tucked-in T-shirt, and rain boots. There’s no rain in the forecast, so I bet they’re to make it easy to hose off any dog poop she steps in.
Peanut Butter is going wild, barking and whining and pawing at the door, and Kyle grumbles out, “Don’t destroy my damn truck.” When Kyle opens the door, the dog senses freedom and jumps out, taking off to disappear behind the house.
Kyle reaches in to grab the box, and I open my own door this time, climbing out.
“Oh, hi,” Maggie says, her eyes as warm as her welcome. “I’m Maggie Reynolds. And I’m guessing you’re…” She checks me out from head to toe quickly, and with a smile says, “The woman who’s been driving Kyle crazy.”
My jaw drops open, and I glare at Kyle as he comes around the front of the truck, already beaming at me. “That she is, in the best way possible.”
Maggie laughs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just that Kyle’s been talking about you.”
“He has?” I can’t help but wonder exactly what he’s been saying. I can’t imagine it’s anything that good.
“Oh, yeah, Dani this and Dani that. He’s smitten as a kitten,” Maggie reveals, nodding assuredly.
“You’re killing my ‘play it cool’ plans here, Mags.” Kyle throws the deadpan reprimand over his shoulder as he walks the box into the garage, where there’s already a private pen set up.
I can see a reddish-brown mother dog lying in one corner, sleeping soundly, and five more pups are cuddled up into a big pile of puppy cuteness in another.
Kyle sets the box down several feet away, and Maggie supervises while he takes the pups out, looking over each one for anything concerning. She also scoffs and tells Kyle, “Women don’t like it when men play it cool. They want to know where they stand, right up front. And this one should know she’s got you hook, line, and sinker.”
I have to press my lips together as hard as I can to keep from laughing as Maggie schools him. I don’t dare tell Kyle that she’s right. Honesty is key.
Kyle chooses to ignore her advice and instead takes a towel from Maggie and begins rubbing it over each pup.
“Whiskey, the hopefully adoptive momma, has had this in her pen the last few days. This’ll help blend their smell in with the rest of the pups,” she explains to me. “Let me see that one,” Maggie tells Kyle, and he hands her the small, black and white spotted puppy he’s holding. “Hmm… he’s probably the smallest of the four. Let’s start with him and see how Whiskey does.”
She adds the small puppy to the pile of Whiskey’s biological pups, and he snuggles right in with them like they’ve always been together. We sit to wait and watch, another puppy in each of our hands.
“Introducing unfamiliar pups to a mom is potentially dangerous, and if Whiskey tries to hurt the little guy we snuck into her litter, he’ll have to be pulled out quickly. I know what I’m doing, but I’d rather be the one sticking my hand in Whiskey’s way if she gets upset. Don’t try to interfere if they get nibbly.” Her warning is delivered with a stern look, and I think if I were to get between Maggie and an aggressive dog, Maggie would be the bigger threat.