Page 26 of Logan
Logan
Dozer nudges me with his head.
Luna didn’t tell me that this little guy liked to run. She also didn’t tell me he’s a chewer, and loves my boots. He’s already gnawed on all of my dining chairs and ruined a pair of tennis shoes. They weren’t my finest pair, but still. The little gremlin is supposed to be a lap dog. He’s nothing like that. Oh, and if you stop playing with him, he lets you know with an almighty yap.
I have noticed, in the twenty-four hours since I picked him up, that he has these little bursts of energy, then flops down into a heap to sleep it off.
He’s fucking cute, too.
Nobody warned me how stinking cute he would be in real life, and missing a leg has not taken away from that, nor has it slowed him down.
Last night, he snuggled up next to me on the bed. I’m still struggling to work out how he made it onto the bed because of his short little legs, and well, the missing one. I guess we’ll never know. But when I rolled over and our faces were pressed together, it scared the life out of me. There he was, snoring hislittle head off while resting it on the spare pillow. I didn’t have the heart to put him back on his bed. I’m not a total monster; I laid his bed down on the floor near the edge of the bed, but it seems Dozer really does like human company. I don’t know how dogs can be so forgiving. They’re not like people at all.
Luna told me he’d been at another foster home but they had to move. Because they had two other special needs dogs, it took a lot out of her to manage multiple fosters, so something had to give. The lady has done a lot of work with him, so I’m told, and it shows. He never showed any signs of fearfulness, even though Luna explained that he didn’t like some of the men who came into the shop. I’d put bets on it that his abuser was a male, but he’s only been sweet and trusting to me. I guess I just have a way with animals. Always have.
“This isn’t permanent,” I tell Luna. “Just until he finds a new suitable home.”
“Okay.” Luna nods, but she’s smiling weirdly.
“What?”
“Huh?”
“Why are you smilin’ like that?”
She shakes her head. “I have no idea what you mean. Now, if you have any issues at all, just call me, alright? He can be a handful.”
Something else she didn’t tell me on the initial phone call.
“A handful, how?”
She straightens her spine, as if going into bat was her plan all along. “Well, he can be a little hyperactive, but trust me, when he crashes, he crashes hard.”
“Got it.”
“He is a bit fussy with his food, so I’ve given you a couple of days worth of what he likes?—”
“Can homeless dogs afford to be so fussy?” I wonder.
“And he favors chicken, and these grain-free biscuits. Frenchies are known to have food allergies, so limiting his options will be helpful should he have an upset stomach.”
“Sounds joyous.”
“Oh, he adores blueberries, and kale and sweet potatoes.”
I stare at her. “You fed him kale?”
“And sweet potatoes.”
“Should I be writing all this down?”
She smiles sweetly. “No need. I’m emailing his information for you so you have it on hand.”
“Okay, and when will we know about a new foster?”
It’s almost as if she’s pretending to think, shifting her eyes off to the side as she pouts. “Well, it’s one of those things, isn’t it? Finding someone to help with a special needs dog, and his sensitivities, is always a challenge. Plus, Betty said she may take him back once she’s settled at the new house.”
I give her a deadpan look. “He seems fine to me. You wouldn’t even know there was a leg missing.” I glance down just as Dozer zooms past me, a little Pekingese on his heels. “Wait, isn’t that Julius?”
