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She was just a dog. Forty-five pounds of canine and kraft singles, but she made the world stand still in a way I’d never felt before.

By Antler WellsPublished 2 years ago 5 min read
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art credit to: @cashstal on instagram

Everyone had a dog. Even those with no time or no energy. Everyone out for a walk as I drove by had a dog, but not me.

I’d been waiting for years for the right time to adopt. Hemming and hawing over one thing or another. Eventually though, I couldn’t help but realize that nobody else seemed to be waiting. Maybe there would never be a right time. Maybe I just needed to jump in.

So despite my fears and reservations, I began to search. Online, in person, over the phone - I would find my dog. I took my time. A calculated risk, I called it.

At a brewery downtown on an average day in June my pal Marcus and I mosied our way to the final adoption event of the weekend. Marcus was an old friend of mine, the kind you didn’t need to talk to often; but we liked to talk, we spent nearly every free moment of our lives together. Marc was tall, taller than me anyway. He had strawberry blonde hair that was always spiked up in the front and freckles on his cheeks. Marcus knew just as well as I did how perfect my first dog had to be, so I let him tag along for the search.

Just as we arrived it began to rain and most of the crowd headed inside. We trudged our way to the bar and grabbed a drink before heading back out to see the dogs. I was almost certain I wouldn’t find her here, a bit sore from a weekend with no luck. I was picky out of fear, I was also a huge believer in magic. If there was a connection, I’d know. She’d find me.

“Looking to adopt today?” Came a soft voice from behind us.

“Possibly, yes. Just looking for now.”

“Okay, let me know if you have any questions!” She hadn’t lost her enthusiasm as I had mine. I appreciated that. I walked the kennels up and down a couple of times, stopping briefly to say hi to a few sweet faces I couldn’t quite resist. There were plenty of wonderful dogs but nobody stuck out. We kept wandering the tent, sipping our beers and noticed towards the back another dog we hadn’t seen yet. A small black pit bull puppy with big clumsy paws and gentle brown eyes staring right up at us.

“Who’s this?” I asked the woman from the rescue.

“Oh that’s Story, our bottle baby. She’s two years old now and still hasn’t found the right home.”

I knelt down beside her cage and put my hand out to her. She stood up from her blanket and wiggled right over to me. My heart jumped, and my stomach flipped. I had found my dog.

“She’s yours isn’t she?” Marcus asked in a whisper.

“She’s mine.”

Marcus held her the entire ride home and the two fell in love. She had found a home quickly not only in me, but with Marcus as well.

Our next two years as a family were heaven. Marc, Story, and I traveled across the country camping and hiking and exploring together. Every state, regional, or national park we could make it to, we did. Big fires, big trees, and big love. Story filled our hearts with a new excitement for life and diminished all our fears the day we brought her home.

As we both fell in love with this dog we fell in love with each other, and it didn’t even have to be said. Until one night at the campfire in Battle Creek, over a perfectly poured whiskey and coke, he proposed. It was unconventional, sure, but it felt right.

Story had brought us peace, she taught us what loyalty really meant and our love began to overflow.

“That dog makes the world stop spinning.” he’d tell me as he’d lay in bed with her. He was right. She knew just when we needed her, she radiated compassion, and when things were overwhelming, she made the world stop spinning.

Every Sunday I’d stay in bed as long as possible, but Marc could never sleep in. So he cooked, and I’d wake up to a plate full of waffles or a chocolate cake. After breakfast the three of us would flop onto my bed and all lay there quiet for a while. Just the three of us, holding onto each other, breathing. We were resetting.

The night we came home from the trip to Battle Creek I went to bed early. I was exhausted and left the camping gear and bags in the middle of the living room floor. Marc hopped in the shower. I was asleep before he was finished.

I woke up the next morning to the usual smells of breakfast wafting in from the kitchen. Bacon, french toast, scrambled eggs. I woke up happy, but something told me to be cautious with that feeling.

In the kitchen my plate was set at the counter. Next to it a yellow rose and a note.

I read carefully, Marcus’s handwriting wasn’t always the best. He spoke gently but with truth. He left. People run, they get scared and they leave. I told myself this until I didn’t believe it anymore. He walked out.

All the camping gear was gone from the living room, his closet was empty and his bed cold and unmade. Just the night before he promised he’d stay.

My head began to buzz. I left my food on the counter and went back to bed. Everything was moving and I knew I would soon be stuck again where I had been before. The world was spinning and I couldn’t make it stop.

I can’t believe he took her from me.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Antler Wells

missing Isherwood, but writing more like Cash

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