Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
When I joined them, the dog looked up at me, and I could have sworn he appeared uncomfortable, like it was awkward for him, all the crying and carrying on that was happening.
“She’s saying thank you,” I found myself telling the dog.
He actually arched an eyebrow, or the hair that passed for an eyebrow, and gave me a face like he was worried for my sanity.
“Maybe we should ask Ian if we can keep him,” I mentioned to Sam as Chickie patiently sat there and let Hannah sob and squeeze him.
“We can’t afford to feed him and put both our kids through college,” Sam told me, even as he scratched behind Chickie’s ears. “He’s a very good boy, though.”
Yes, he was.
“You can’t have a wolf hybrid in Chicago,” Erin’s husband, Greg, who had come out of the house with her—they had left the dog inside, which was smart—yelled at Sam.
“He’s not a wolf,” Sam replied, and when he turned to face Greg, the other man took a step back, even though Sam wasn’t anywhere near him. “He’s part Malamute and Caucasian Ovcharka. That’s why he’s so big.”
“Gimme a break, Sam. I know a wolf when I see one.”
“Really?” Sam goaded him, which wasn’t normal, but I understood. Sam hated people telling him that what they knew was the truth and what Sam knew was bullshit.
“He’s a wolf.”
“He’s not, and you can talk to his vet if you don’t believe me, but let’s face it, Greg, regardless of whatever my dog is, yours attacked my girl, and I could have him put down. The only reason Hannah didn’t get hurt was that she had the presence of mind to keep her chair between her and the dog, and of course, Chickie coming to her rescue.”
Hannah had used her plastic chair like a lion tamer, but the dog was big and aggressive, and she had only one arm, and she was worried about holding Dobby securely to her chest with her cast and sling.
“Sam, please don’t kill our dog,” Erin said shakily.
Sam glared at her. “I would never kill your dog, but you need to put a harness on him or something so he can’t slip out of his collar.”
She nodded quickly, and Greg said thank you, and that was it for them. They were gone minutes later. They didn’t even take food to go.
“Oh, he’s such a good boy,” Sam’s mother told Chickie, feeding him pieces of steak. “Yes, you are, such a good boy.”
“Mom, don’t—you’re gonna clog his arteries with all that red meat.”
Chickie shot Sam a look like he needed to leave the nice lady alone.
At home, Kola was going to put his skates on and take Chickie for a run, but the temperature was dropping by the second, and I didn’t want anyone freezing to death.
“That dog cannot freeze,” Hannah assured me, using one of her old brushes on the dog. “His coat is crazy thick, Pa.”
Kola went up to his room around eight and passed out after Harper went home. Jake went up not long after, and that left me, Sam, and Hannah downstairs. Around ten, Hannah decided that pie sounded really good.
“What?”
She nodded. “Key lime or maybe cherry?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Oh, from that diner that makes the apple turnovers,” Sam said, sounding like he was giving it some serious thought as well.
I was still shaking my head as they made their way to the door. Chickie was at the door moments after they left, and I figured he needed to do his business. I would have to remind Hannah in the morning to go on poop patrol.
I let Chickie out first and then went back to get my sweater from the hook in the laundry room, and once I was suitably ready for the arctic chill, only then did I step out onto the deck.
The screams were a surprise.
There was a man with a backpack, and I was guessing he had been in the yard that butted up against ours from the back because he was leaning on the six-foot-high fence for a moment before Chickie came over the top like it was not a problem at all. He screamed again, and I understood that it had in fact been him moments before.
Bolting to the nearest tree, he started climbing, and to my astonishment, Chickie started up after him.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked quietly, a bit overwhelmed.
“Are you kidding me?!” the stranger shrieked, climbing faster because he was committed now, with Chickie close on his heels.
It was one of our white oaks, and the tree itself was a good sixty feet, and I had to wonder how high the dog could go.
“Chickie!” I yelled, and in mid-snarl—he was booking it up that tree after the guy, sounding like a hellhound the whole way—he turned and looked at me. “Get down.”