Page 54 of Ronen
Ronen
Mason pulled up next to my bike, and as he got out, I could see he was already searching for me. Stepping out of the shadows of his house, he nearly startled, but caught himself in time. Most people wouldn’t even notice the barely visible tightening of his muscles.
“Is it a family trait to move like a damn cat?” he asked, pocketing his keys.
“Something like that,” I told him, as we stood awkwardly with each other.
Pointing towards his barn, where an outside light illuminated the doorway and about three feet around it, I said, “Lead the way.”
Suddenly, a beast of undetermined origin ran from beside the barn, coming at us at full speed. Pink tongue lolling and ears flopping wildly, its huge paws pounded the earth loudly.
Mason whistled shrilly, then ordered in his deep baritone, “Oreo! Down!”
The brute paid him absolutely no attention, and barreled into me, jumping up and planting his paws on either side of my head.
Luckily, I braced myself, but the lug was still heavy, and I staggered back, grasping his thick fur to stay on my feet. The dog hugged me, hot breath flooding my face, as a wet tongue licked one cheek.
Mason made a valiant effort of trying to get the dog down, but the pup was determined to drown me in his slobbery kisses. Finally, Mason wrangled him off me, and the dog sat at my feet, panting and staring up at me adoringly.
Mason shook his head, “I should have never taught him that. I thought it was cute; he wanted to give hugs. I just forgot not everyone is my size.”
“Your size? Not everyone is his size. Is he a dog horse mix?”
Honestly, I couldn’t figure out what kind of dog he was. He was black with big white spots, long legs, a barrel chest and a dopey face that was somehow absolutely adorable. He was also the size of a small pony. Even sitting patiently, his head was at my mid-thigh.
Mason laughed, and I realized I loved the sound of his rumbly, deep laughter. It did something to my insides, made them go all gooshy and swirly. “He’s a Great Dane and Old English Mastiff mix.”
“Goddess, no wonder I can practically ride him.” Petting his head, I cooed, “Who's a good puppers? Are you a good puppers?”
Oreo–who was perfectly named as desserts went–rubbed his head into my palm, looking like he was in heaven.
“He’s a big goober,” Mason rolled his eyes, “and a wonderful guard dog, as you can see. Didn’t even come out to greet you when you arrived or let you know that you are on his property.”
When I shook my head no, Mason said, “Bet your bike spooked him, which is why he was cowering over by the barn. He’s not great with loud noises. Hates storms. Thankfully, I’m out far enough that I don't need to worry about fireworks on the fourth of July, or I’d probably have to give him a tranquilizer.”
Squatting down on my haunches next to Oreo, I gave him more pets and coos. “You knew I wasn’t a threat, didn’t you, good boy. I’m sure he’d be terrifying when push came to shove.”
Mason snorted loudly, clearly not agreeing. “His size might intimidate most people, but that’s about it. He’s a softie.”
Mason patted his thigh, and Oreo came to attention, looking at his master with a tilted head and heart eyes. “Let’s go to the barn. Come on, boy.”
Oreo took off like a shot, running to the barn door and then waiting patiently for us to catch up.
“He’s good with the animals?” I asked, walking beside Mason.
“He is. I was a bit worried about what he would do with the chickens, but all it took was one time getting pecked and he learned to give them a wide berth. Chickens are evil sometimes. They look all cuddly, but they will peck the shit out of you, given the chance.”
He held the barn door open for me, after flipping on a light switch. Oreo trotted in front of us, prancing down the aisle, then leaned his head over a pen door. “He likes to watch thekids. Cinnamon tolerates him but makes sure he doesn’t get too close to her babies.”
Oreo turned to give us a look that said hurry up already.
The barn was tidy as barns went, I guessed. Really, I didn’t have much real-life experience hanging out in any barns, just what I read in books and saw on TV.
My low-heeled motorcycle boots echoed off the concrete floor, that was dusted with some stray pieces of hay or straw.
There were four stalls on each side of the wide walkway, all with the top part of the door open. A black horse stuck his snout out of the closest stall to me, curling its lip and giving a loud neigh at me.
Another horse, this one a dark sable, looked out with disinterest then went back to whatever they had been up to before we arrived.
