Chapter 27
CHAPTER 27: THE SHELTER MUTT
By early winter, the house felt a little too quiet while Oliver was at school.
They didn’t go to a breeder. Diane used to only own purebred Afghan Hounds—dogs that looked beautiful on a velvet sofa but were too neurotic to actually play with.
Emma and Michael took Oliver to the county animal shelter on a Saturday.
They walked past the barking, jumping puppies.
Oliver stopped in front of a cage at the very back.
Inside was a terrier mix. He had wiry gray hair, one ear that stood straight up while the other flopped over, and a tail that thumped rhythmically against the concrete floor. He wasn't elegant. He was a mess.
"Him," Oliver said, pointing a small finger.
Michael knelt next to his son. "Are you sure? He looks like a piece of used steel wool, buddy."
Oliver nodded firmly. "He's our dog."
They named him Barnaby.
Barnaby chewed the leg of the coffee table on his second day. He tracked muddy paw prints across the foyer. He shed gray hair onto Michael’s dark slacks.
In the old house, an imperfect dog would have been banished to the garage or sent to obedience boarding.
In this house, Michael simply bought a better vacuum.
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When Emma came down late one night for a glass of water, she found Michael asleep on the living room rug, his arm thrown over the scruffy dog, Barnaby snoring loudly against his chest.
The house was no longer a museum. It was a home.
