Page 112 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“He knows what it’s like to be scared,” I tell her. “Sometimes, it takes one survivor to recognize another.”

Maple has now ventured several feet from her starting point, her body gradually loosening as she follows Biscuit’s playful lead. There’s still caution in her movements, but something else is emerging too—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of trust. And then, there’s just the littlest sway of her tail. A slight wagging back and forth.

“Can I try?” Duke asks, looking to Katie for permission.

She hesitates, then nods. “Take it slow, okay? No sudden movements.”

With painstaking care, Duke crawls forward on his hands and knees, stopping a few feet from where Biscuit and Maple are engaged in their cautious dance.

“Hi, Maple,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m Duke. That’s Biscuit, and he really likes you.”

Maple freezes, her eyes darting to this new presence, and for a moment I’m afraid we’ve lost all progress. But Duke, with wisdom beyond his years, simply sits back on his heels and waits, offering his open palm low to the ground.

“It’s okay,” he continues in that same gentle tone. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. We have a really nice house with a yard and lots of toys.”

Biscuit, as if understanding his role in this delicate negotiation, returns to Maple’s side and nuzzles her once more. Then, to my astonishment, he walks over to Duke and back to Maple, creating a bridge between them.

Maple watches this journey with pointed ears, her body still tense but her eyes tracking every movement. Then, with excruciating slowness, she takes a step toward Duke.And another. And another, until she’s close enough to sniff his outstretched hand.

“Oh my goodness,” Katie gasps. “This is incredible.”

Duke remains perfectly still, allowing Maple to investigate him at her own pace. When she finally gives his fingers a tentative lick, his face lights up with such pure joy that my chest aches with the beauty of it.

“She likes me!” he whispers, his eyes finding Thatcher’s and mine, seeking confirmation of this miracle.

“She sure does, buddy,” Thatcher says, and I hear the roughness in his voice that tells me he’s not as unmoved as he pretends to be.

Maple sits and then lowers to the ground in front of Duke, offering him her belly. “Good girl, Maple!” Duke says, petting her gently.

Emboldened by Duke’s success, Biscuit bounces toward a tennis ball lying abandoned in the corner. He nudges it with his nose, sending it rolling toward Maple. She rolls over, still laying down and watches its progress with newfound interest, her tail giving the faintest twitch when the ball stops at her paws.

“Good girl,” Duke encourages. “You can play if you want to.”

For a long moment, Maple stares at the ball. Then, with an almost hesitant movement, she lowers her head and noses it, sending it rolling back toward Biscuit. My little dog jumps on it immediately, his excitement contagious, and Maple’s tail—her tail that hasn’t moved in two weeks prior to today—gives another, more definite wag.

“I think,” I say to Thatcher, my voice thick with emotion, “we might be witnessing a miracle.”

His eyes, when they meet mine, are soft in a way thatstill takes my breath away, even after a year of waking up beside him. “I’ve seen a few of those lately,” he replies.

Over the next several minutes, we watch in awe as Maple gradually emerges from her shell. She doesn’t transform completely—there’s still caution in her movements, still shadows in her eyes—but there’s life there now. She sniffs Biscuit’s ball, takes a few playful steps after it when Duke rolls it gently across the floor, and even ventures close enough to accept a scratch behind her ears from Katie.

Katie wipes her damp eyes. “She’s been practically catatonic since she arrived, and now...” She gestures to where Maple is allowing Duke to stroke her side, her tail swishing tentatively.

I look at Thatcher, finding my own thoughts reflected in his eyes. “I think that means she’s ours, wouldn’t you say?” I ask, my voice soft but certain.

He nods, that half smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Lucky for us,” he adds, “Maple and Biscuits go well together, huh?”

“They sure do,” I laugh.

“But we said we were going to name our new dog Pancake!” Duke whines.

“Her full name could be Maple Pancake!” I offer, watching as Maple—Pancake—allows Duke to gently pat her head. “We can see if she responds to her new name. But I’m okay with Maple, too.”

Duke thinks for a long moment before nodding. “I think the universe might be telling us she’s meant for us.”

I nod, marveling at the persistence of six-year-olds. “I think you might be right.”

“The universe has excellent timing,” Thatcher agrees, something in his tone making me glance up at him curiously.

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