Shelter Me (39 page)

“Poems. Poetry. I’m a musician but not much of a lyricist, so I figured I would use some of the ones you’ve studied. Maybe someday I’ll pull out my guitar and sing them to you. But for now, ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . .’”

Epilogue

I
WAS BORN IN
the land of Babylon.

But I’m an American dog now. I’ve belonged to an American family since I came here ten years ago. I’ve helped a lot of animals understand humans a little better. Most of all, I’ve helped one particular human hear me.

We’re taking a trip today, so I’m a happy fella. I pretend I still don’t like the leash much since the humans offer me great treats when I finally give in and walk nicely. It’s a game we play.

I’m slower these days, and they slip carrots and peas into my food to make me think I’m full when I’m not. But they tell me my hips will hurt less if I don’t get heavy. I remind myself of the days I had to scavenge for scraps and I eat the diet food they give me.

We walk down the corridor, one of those long tile kinds they bleach all the time to keep things sterile. It’s not a hospital exactly, but I’m not sure of the correct word. I’ve been gone from Babylon so long sometimes the English words are just out of reach. Or maybe that’s because I’m an old dog and they say my first six months were pretty rough. I’ve had it good since then thanks to my people. My family.

They’re all here with me today and that’s special, rare, too, since everybody grew up. I went with Mike and Sierra when they moved away for him to train to wear a green beret with his Army uniform. Sierra runs an online magazine about military life and she fosters for animal shelters wherever we move next. She’s helped a lot of folks and makes good money with that magazine. Mike’s gotten rows of medals from being a Special Forces guy—and he’s a genuine family man now, with their little boy and a baby on the way. It’s a girl and they’re going to name her Millie. I can tell the gender even though they don’t know. But don’t say anything to them. Mike and Sierra say they want it to be a surprise when the baby’s born.

Today, it’s Gramps’s birthday. Even if he doesn’t remember, his family does, and they brought me along. The staff in this sorta-hospital is always nice about letting me visit the General.

I know the way to his room. We come here often when Sierra and Mike visit Tennessee. Nathan lifts me up onto the bed. My climbing days are over because of these creaky, achy hips. It’s tough to keep the weight off when you can barely hobble across the yard to mark trees and poop beneath your favorite bush.

The mattress gives under me and I roll in closer to Gramps. He can tell it’s me even if he can’t talk anymore. He and I don’t need words. We understand.

Sierra leans in. “Hi, Gramps. Happy Birthday.” She presses a kiss to his forehead and whispers, “They say that in the Army the coffee’s mighty fine . . .”

General Joshua McDaniel’s mouth moves soundlessly, but I can hear the words in his head. Kinda like the way he could button his uniform even when he couldn’t fasten jeans. The military man in him is deeply ingrained, one of the last parts to fade with the disease.

Sierra eases back to stand with Mike while he keeps their son occupied with a video game.

A hand falls to rest on my head, Joshua McDaniel’s hand. The weight of it and scent of him remind me of that very first scratch from another McDaniel. The first time I experienced a human touch. I feel that connection now, father to son. The General feels it, too, in a way that goes beyond words or conscious thought. His mind doesn’t understand where his son has gone, but in moments like these when he’s scratching my head, Joshua’s spirit understands about Allen. In these moments, I help him feel connected to his son.

My mission to heal this family takes on many forms and changes with the years. But I am here for them. Always.

I think I fell asleep for a while. I like naps more and more every year, but today that nap cut short my visit. All too soon Nathan lifts me off the bed again. The smell of him and his Coast Guard uniform is familiar, comforting. He smells like life these days. But then, that’s his job as a Coastie helicopter pilot—rescuing people.

I get to see him when Mike and Sierra go to Lacey’s for family reunions. She owns a lot of land for the Second Chance Ranch Rescue since she bought out the Hammonds. Lacey and her husband are standing in the doorway. They’re happy, Lacey and . . . her man. It’s not my place to tell you who she married. That’s another animal’s story to share.

And there are as many stories as there are animals. Because we are all meant to be with a person, to help them, to save them. They shelter our bodies and we shelter their hearts. It’s what we were made for by the Big Master.

It’s our mission.

And thanks to the Second Chance Ranch Rescue . . . so many more of us get the honor of knowing
mission complete
.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next Second Chance Ranch novel from Catherine Mann

RESCUE ME

Available February 2015 from Berkley Sensation

F
OR TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS
I had three names—Bitch, Fat Mama and Dumbass.

I didn’t dare ignore the voice that growled more fiercely than any animal. I didn’t question if I deserved to have a single name of my own. My existence followed a pattern. Hungry, not hungry. Hurt, healed. Pregnant, nursing. And above all, obey or pay.

Looking back, the contrast from then to my life now is staggering. Some people have said they wonder how I survived so long in that cabin with limited human contact, only the drone of never ending game shows on television and the bubbling mix in the kitchen. How I kept my spirit intact. How I didn’t turn into a mirror image of the voice that both fed me and hurt me. And I have to confess I came close to becoming like the soulless monsters that drifted in and out during those early years.

Until I was saved from crawling into the dark hole of hurt and misery forever. I was given a hint of hope beyond the rank four walls of my home.

I smelled honeysuckle.

Just a whiff of the perfume drifted through an open window one summer Tennessee day. At first, I thought I’d imagined it. I tipped my nose into that gentle breeze curling through the half-cracked pane, each puff parting the despair one ripple at a time. Overriding even the never-ending hum of the quiz shows.

And there it was again. Honeysuckle. Sweet. Soft. Light. Everything opposite of what I’d known from birth.

Desperate for more, I crawled to the window, slowly, praying no one would see me. Life was easier if I stayed hidden, because otherwise I feared I would one day have to fight back. Still I was willing to risk detection to breathe more of that flowery perfume.

I have a particularly keen sense of smell, so living in a filthy meth house for twenty-eight years took a toll on me. And just to clarify, twenty-eight human years equates to four dog years for me. As a dog, that explains why the stench hit me hard.

Did you know that canines can identify smells up to ten thousand times better than a human? Well, we can. Truly, aromatherapy is wasted on you people. My brain has forty percent more capacity devoted to smell than yours. Not that I mean to sound condescending or call you inferior. I learned that about sniffers on
Jeopardy
. Facts are facts. I have over two million olfactory sensors in my nose. You have opposable thumbs.

I like facts. The endless television programs offered that much at least, game show after game show. Back then, I embraced those quizzes, soaking up data, anything to prove I wasn’t a dumbass at all. If I’d been a human and hadn’t started having babies so early, I’ve often thought I would have become a professor with thick black glasses. I would have sequestered myself in an office lined with books, solitude. Peace.

But back to my sniffer.

And honeysuckle.

And how all that relates to the day I found freedom in a splintered door.

To be clear, I spent my life watching methamphetamine being cooked, smoked, shot, sold. The evil, rancid odor of the drug left me groggy. Sometimes it even made me snarl, though that’s not my nature. The smell of it saturated the walls, peeling the paper down in strips I chewed in moments of frenzied boredom. It permeated the saggy sofa I never sat on. Even clung to the mattresses on the floor in both bedrooms where cranked-up junkies had sex. And worst of all, the toxic clouds hung in the kitchen, counters packed with everything from drain cleaner to funnels to my bowl full of scraps.

But that afternoon during my fourth summer, when I discovered honeysuckle, I considered that maybe, just maybe there was something better for me, if only I could wait long enough to escape farther than the chain in the yard allowed.

Easier said than done, because I was a moneymaker, just like that steaming meth cooker. My litters of boxer pups were worth a lot, so I ate well, periodically. And no one kicked me, periodically. Until my babies were taken away, always too early, so I could breed again.

You may already be thinking “puppy mill,” but that’s not one hundred percent accurate. The woman who owned me—I won’t bother to distinguish her with a name—would be more appropriately labeled a backyard breeder who used me and other dogs to supplement her meth income. Up until that honeysuckle moment in my fourth summer, I thought my mission in life was to have babies for people to love even if I never got to experience that feeling myself, other than for the few brief weeks I was allowed to keep each litter, their warm tiny bodies snuggled up against me.

By the fourth winter, I wondered if I’d imagined a honeysuckle world just to survive. I began to lose hope, drawing in nothing but the fumes that made me mean.

Then, on the bitterest, coldest morning, my world changed on a larger scale with another beautiful scent. Peppermint. Yes, peppermint this time. Still my favorite perfume, even above honeysuckle. Because now I knew that two beautiful smells outnumbered the one evil stench of this cabin. There was more out there past my chain. So much more.

And I thank the Big Master who made us that the peppermint-scented lady understood I was not at my best the day she and the sad-eyed policeman broke down the meth house door to rescue me.