Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
I’m about to make my final lap around the market and stop to grab a cold brew from the coffee cart, planning to call it a morning, when I see the crowd outside the Paws & Claws Pet Land.
An adoption event. Shit. My kryptonite. I’ve always wanted a puppy.
I hover at the edge, my whole body instantly thrumming with the conflicting impulses of “run away now” and “touch all the puppies.” The volunteer closest to me is wearing a T-shirt that says “FREE KISSES.”
A woman with a voice like an airhorn calls out, “All adoption fees half off until noon! Don’t wait to meet your forever friend!” She looks right at me as she says it. Like she knows. Like she can see an easy target a mile away.
“Are you looking for a new fur baby?” the volunteer asks, sidling up with a clipboard.
“Just browsing,” I say, my voice climbing two octaves. “I mean, I live in an apartment, so…”
She nods, as if this is the universal excuse of the weak-willed. “You’d be surprised how many of these guys are apartment-friendly.”
She gestures at the kennel directly in front of us. A puppy, flopped in the exact pose of every “save me” ASPCA ad that’s ever aired, is lying there with his nose squashed against the bars. His eyes are huge, brown, and so heartbreakingly soulful that I swear they reach into my ribcage and squeeze. He’s got impossibly floppy ears, silky and drooping, like a cartoon puppy engineered for maximum cuteness. His nose is smushed to the crate like he’s trying to sniff his way out, and every time he breathes, this tiny whimper bubbles up and undoes me a little more.
His fur is tricolor, with patches of black draped over a warm tan and a snowy white chest. His humongous paws look like he's wearing formal socks. His floppy ears are nearly as long as his face, velvet-soft, and bouncing with each head tilt. His classic beagle eyes look up at me, round and liquid brown and rimmed with black, with a plea so earnest I can almost hear the baying howl he'll perfect in a few months. When he shifts his weight, his white-tipped tail wags with such force that his entire back half sways. I actually clutch my chest.
“He’s six months,” the girl says. “Found behind the bakery in a cardboard box. He loves cuddles and string cheese, but he’s scared of loud noises.”
I squat down and put my hand against the kennel. The puppy sniffs my fingers, then licks them through the bars with a tongue that feels improbably huge. His tail wags, then thunks once against the newspaper lining.
“What’s his name?” I ask, voice thick.
Her eyes light up as she realizes she’s got a live one on the hook. “We’ve been calling him Buster, but honestly, he’ll answer to anything if there’s food involved.”
I shouldn’t do this. I really, really shouldn’t. I have work, and a weird schedule, and I’ll have to pay a pet deposit to my landlord. Plus, what do I even know about dogs? I’ve never had a pet before.
But Buster looks at me like he’s known me for years. Like I’m his person.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to summon the ancient wisdom of impulse control. But I fail. Miserably.
I straighten up, dust imaginary dirt off my shorts, and say, “Can I get to know him?”
The girl beams. “I’ll get the leash.” She unlocks the kennel, and Buster immediately slumps onto my feet, all dead weight and neediness, like he’s been practicing this move for months. His head tilts back, brown eyes melting my resolve into a useless puddle.
I kneel next to him and rub his ears. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you?” I whisper.
He sneezes once, then flops his head onto my knees. I glance around, hoping nobody I know is witnessing my immediate collapse. I glance down at my new friend. “You want to go home with me?”
He cocks his head. His tongue lolls out, and he steals my heart. Darn it. It looks like I’m about to become a beagle mommy.
By the time the sun dips low enough to throw stripes of gold across my kitchen floor, I have leveled up from “first-time dog owner” to “walking cautionary tale in impulse control.” My Google search history is a tragically comic spiral of panic: Is puppy sneezing normal? What’s the best chew toy for a beagle destroyer? Can dogs get separation anxiety after one hour? Will my puppy be stressed if I use a crate?
Buster is, meanwhile, living his best life. He’s sniffed every corner of my apartment, christened three separate rugs with a delicate drizzle of what I hope is just nervous pee, and claimed the couch as his personal kingdom. He was only up there for ten seconds before he immediately started gnawing the pom-pom fringe on my favorite throw pillow. When I try to correct him, he fixes me with a look so wounded, so Shakespearean in its tragedy, that I back off and fetch him a rawhide instead.