Page 10 of Pain in the Axe
When I visited the Lovewell animal shelter a few months ago, I went in with every intention of adopting a dog. I envisioned leaving with a loving and goofy lab I could throw a ball to and take for hikes.
Instead, I’d gone and fallen in love with a skittish, traumatized pit bull mix.
Did I mention she hated men?
She assessed me with a palpable wariness. Then she ignored me. Instead of moving along and finding another dog, one who was excited to see me, who’d let me pet them, I dug in. For weeks, I visited, working to earn her trust.
Clearly, I was a masochist.
She was perfect. I knew it the instant I set eyes on her. Her fur was a reddish brown, and she had the wide nose of a pit bull and the fluffy ears of a spaniel.
But it was her attitude that reeled me in. She wasn’t aggressive. Not at all. But she was cold, standoffish.
Unlike the other dogs that barked when I came in and begged for attention, she made me work for it.
I’d go every few days and sit on the floor outside her enclosure and offer her treats. The Milk Bones I’d brought at first didn’t cut it.
A few weeks in, I realized she liked grass-fed beef jerky, so I stocked up.
Eventually, she warmed up to me, taking food out of my hand and letting me take her for walks. But she was still wary.
“Fine,” I said, running a hand down her back. “You can come with me.”
She lifted her head and let me gently scratch her ear before tucking into her kibble. Taking that as acceptance, I stepped away to let her eat in peace.
With a roll of my shoulders, I turned on the coffee maker. While it brewed, I ran through all the tasks I needed to accomplish today.
I was bringing my mug to my lips, anticipating that first hit of caffeine, when I heard an engine outside.
A moment later, my mother was at the door, and before I made it halfway across the room, Clementine was hiding behind the couch. She hated visitors even more than I did.
“Morning, Mom.” I angled in and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Her arms were loaded with Tupperware, like she’d gone on a baking spree. She strode past me with a smile and set it all on the counter, then produced a new squeaky toy.
“Where’s my sweet grandbaby?” she asked, squeaking the toy.
Clem poked her head around the arm of the couch, curious, but quickly pulled back again.
I poured Mom a cup of black coffee, knowing precisely why she was here at such an early hour.
“Are you gonna talk, or do I have to torture it out of you?” she asked, lifting her mug.
I said nothing.
“Okay.” She set the coffee down and clapped. “Torture it is.”
She took the lid off one container, shifted it on the counter, and cocked a brow at me.
“I made these peanut butter cookies last night.”
The smell hit me hard. My absolute favorite treat. Instantly, I was transported back to childhood. To days when a good report card meant my mom would make these for me as a reward.
Perhaps it was my love of cookies that made me, in the loving words of my mom, “the husky one.” But at 40, I’d long ago made peace with the fact that a six-pack would continue to elude me, so there was no sense in stopping now.
As I reached for one, she pulled the container back hard.
“I heard your new boss tried to hit you with her SUV yesterday.”
