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)
I nod, agreeing to stay out of any trouble, though I hope there’s none to begin with. “Kyle said he volunteers out here. Do you do this often?”
She shrugs, her eyes still on Whiskey. “More often than I’d like, usually not this young, though, fortunately. I mostly get adult dogs who’ve been turned away from the usual avenues for one reason or another. I take care of them, train them a bit, and find good homes for the ones who’re candidates for that. The others, well, they live here in my pack. Peanut Butter helps to socialize them and teach them some manners—”
“Even though he has the manners of a wild raccoon that’s drunk on trashcan punch,” Kyle interjects, and they both laugh.
As if he knows he’s the topic of conversation, Peanut Butter runs across the yard out back with a cattle dog-looking breed hot on his tail. Peanut Butter dodges left and right, and the other dog herds him back to the fence line, keeping him running laps around the perimeter of the yard. It’s like zoomies amped up to eleven, with a game of ‘catch me if you can’ added in for shits and giggles.
“Not sure that’s going all that well,” I offer dryly.
Maggie glances at the two dogs, who freeze snout to snout for a second, and then, at some sign only they understand, take off again. “Actually, Gonzo is super high-energy and wants to be the boss at all times. Peanut Butter will let him run and herd and work until he’s a little tired because that’s the only way he’s receptive to learning what Peanut Butter wants to teach him. Kinda the same thing as having a kid dance their sillies out before you start class.”
“Like how you made me chase you all over the yard before you’d even talk to me without a growl in your voice,” Kyle teases, giving me a smirk that says he’s not too mad about my initial reluctance now.
Mostly joking back, I growl at him in imitation of a dog. He chuckles, which probably proves his point that we’re a work in progress.
I would never compare us to dogs, but Maggie’s description of Gonzo and Peanut Butter doesn’t seem too far off from us, and I think we both know it. When we started, I was all bossy energy and work-focused and automatically ignored Kyle and shut him out. But he didn’t give up, hounding me day after day, until I finally slowed down enough to consider him. And while I certainly don’t need to be taught manners the way Peanut Butter is doing with Gonzo, I think we’re both learning a lot… about ourselves, each other, and maybe what’s possible if we don’t get in our own way.
“In addition to Pee-Bee doing the pack work, Kyle helps me out around here by doing the stuff I’m getting too old to do,” Maggie says, returning to my previous question. She turns grateful eyes to Kyle, and he smiles back. “Or maybe I’m just glad to have someone else willing to do the dirty work of cleaning up the poo. Never would’ve thought Peanut Butter would bring me the best stray of all.” She bumps Kyle’s knee, and he ducks his chin, feigning bashfulness about the praise even though I think he loves it.
It sounds like Maggie is a good woman doing good work, and Kyle seems glad to help her, because as much as she saves these dogs, I think she gives him refuge too. He feels different here—lighter, but also more grounded, like this is his happy place.
“Tsk, I never thought rescuing a dog would get me a bonus grandma,” he quips, then adds, “and you’re not too old to do a damn thing, so stop making yourself out to be helpless.”
She chuckles, throwing her head back. “Well, I’m too old to do the things I don’t want to do, and if you’re offering, I’m gonna letcha go for it. Speaking of, there’s a light out in the kitchen if you wouldn’t mind changing the bulb for me, and I got the wire to tie up that section of fence that keeps popping.”
Kyle hops up like he’s happy to help with her to-do list. “Light, fence. On it.”
He hands the puppy he’s holding to me, and I can’t help but grin at double the doggie cuteness. I don’t even look up when he goes in the house, too lost in puppy noses and paws as I smush my face affectionately against one of the puppies, nuzzling it.
“I’m glad you came out today,” Maggie says, drawing my attention.
“Me too. You must love getting to snuggle puppies and play with dogs all the time.”
Maggie hums. “Yeah, when I get to do that. But it’s not all fun and games. These dogs, the ones that come to me? They’re hurt—sometimes physically, sometimes broken inside—or else they would’ve been fostered and adopted easily through the traditional routes. By the time they get to me, they’ve been through several homes or been wild on the streets, so sometimes, they don’t trust, they’re full of fear, or they have trauma reflexes that make them mean. It’s up to me to decide where to use my limited resources. That’s a heavy responsibility to bear because I can’t always save them all, and if I try, I might miss out on saving one that really deserves it because I wasted time on one that wasn’t salvageable.”