Page 51 of Grump Hard
It can’t be just because I cancelled, that would be crazy. But I honestly can’t think of anything else it could possibly be.
By late afternoon, most of the animals have found homes. The parking lot is quieter now, just a few volunteers gathering supplies and saying their goodbyes. The sun is starting to sink behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be beautiful if I weren’t too angsty to appreciate it.
“Holly?” Janet, the volunteer coordinator, approaches with a worried expression just as I finish packing up my things. “We have a problem. That beagle mix, Daisy, the one that came in from the hoarding situation after her owner passed? A family is interested, but she won’t come out of her crate. We’ve tried everything, and we’re running out of time. They have to leave in thirty minutes. I thought maybe you could give it a try? You’re so good with the anxious ones.”
“Of course, I’m happy to,” I say, following her to the last small enclosure still standing.
I step over the temporary fence and squat down, heart melting at the sight of Daisy pressed into the very back corner of her crate, her small body trembling. Her brown eyes are wide with fear, and she whimpers as I come into view.
“Aw, hey there, sweet girl,” I murmur, extending my hand slowly. “It’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you. These nice people just want to say hi and give you a treat.”
Daisy doesn’t move. She simply shakes harder.
“Oh, come on,” I cajole. “I bet you love treats. All the beagles I know will do just about anything for a treat.”
“We tried,” Janet murmurs behind me. “She wasn’t interested in the biscuits. But a volunteer went to grab some smoked turkey from concessions. Maybe she’ll be more tempted by that.”
Somehow, I know which volunteer is fetching the turkey, even before Luke appears a beat later, holding a small ice cream cup filled with lunchmeat.
He hesitates when he sees me, but then steps over the fence, coming to crouch down next to me in front of the crate.
“Here you go, Daisy.” He sets the cup down on the pavement, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “Come have a snack. You must be hungry. Janet says you haven’t eaten all day.”
Daisy’s trembling slows, just slightly. Her eyes fix on Luke.
Janet whispers, “Keep talking. Her owner was a man with a deep voice, too. Maybe you’ll be able to get through to her.”
Luke clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. But he nods and turns his attention back to the frightened pup. “I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. I’m sure all this noise and fresh air is very different than what you’re used to. But different doesn’t have to be bad. Or frightening.”
Slowly—so slowly, it’s almost imperceptible—Daisy inches forward.
“Different can just be different,” Luke continues, his voice so gentle it makes my chest ache. “And sometimes it can be…wonderful. Not always, but sometimes. I’m sure it will be for you. The Underwoods seem very kind. They recently lost a beagle they loved very much and are very excited about taking you home to foster.”
Daisy moves one paw, then another. She lifts her twitching nose, as if sniffing Luke’s words to see if they smell like truth.
“And if you all get along, they would love to adopt you,” he adds. “I know you’ve been through some painful things, and the person you loved went away. But that doesn’t mean life will always be painful. You have a chance at a fresh start.”
Slowly, slowly, one tentative paw after another, Daisy reaches the front of the crate.
Luke extends his hand, palm up, letting her sniff.
After a moment, Daisy’s pink tongue darts out, licking his fingers, and her tail gives the smallest wag. A beat later, she turns to me with a searching gaze.
I smile, extending my hand, too. “He’s right, Daisy. We’re all friends here, sweet girl. We all just want to help you feel safe again.” She nuzzles her head into my fingertips, and I stroke her soft fur, awed by the grace and generosity of animals all over again.
Truly, what would we humans do without them?
“There you go,” Luke whispers. “You’re very brave.”
I have to blink against the sudden sting of tears. This is the Luke I know. The one who is patient and kind and empathizes with the wounded creatures in the world.
While Daisy, now calm enough to be very interested in her turkey treat, quickly wolfs up every scrap of meat in the cup, Janet hands me her leash.
I pass it over to Luke, watching as he clips it to her collar with the same careful patience. Then, we stand and walk Daisy over to the Underwood family—a couple in their fifties with kind faces and a college-age daughter who immediately drops to her knees, tears of joy shining in her eyes.
“Oh, look at you. You’re perfect, baby,” the girl whispers, making Daisy’s tail wag harder. “You look like you could be Oreo’s twin. Doesn’t she, Mom?”
“She does,” Mrs. Underwood agrees, sounding a little tearful herself.
