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Speak
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Speak

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Wait... Did that dog just say something?
Until she finds a stray dog in a parking lot, Ellen's biggest problem is ducking her best friend's attempts to set her up. But Emmett turns out to be exactly what she needs and more. A lot more. Unfortunately, a lot of other people think they need him too. People with power. People with guns. And some of them will stop at nothing. For Ellen, the worst part is not knowing whom to trust. But that's okay because Emmett has the answers. If everyone will just listen...

LanguageEnglish
Release dateFeb 9, 2019
ISBN9781792897818
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    Speak - Mary O. Paddock

    Speak

    Mary O Paddock

    Contents

    SEPTEMBER

    OCTOBER

    NOVEMBER

    DECEMBER

    JANUARY

    FEBRUARY

    MARCH

    APRIL

    The Dog Who Saved Me

    It takes a village

    Leave the light 0n

    Something about Mary

    Coming in 2019

    Dead Books

    Speak


    Author: Mary O. Paddock


    Cover art and illustrations by Mary Paddock

    all photos, editing, and illustrations Mary Paddock

    Proofread by Tiffany Shand

    First edition 2018

    ISBN: 9781792897818


    Copyright 2019 By Mary Paddock.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author. Publications are exempt in case of brief quotes for the purposes of reviews or articles.

    Maryopaddock.com

    Created with Vellum

    To Elsa,

    The dog who changed everything

    SEPTEMBER

    September 30th

    Every word in this journal is Trish's fault.

    Trish is my therapist and best female friend. And I only say this because Don is my best male friend and it will be easier for everyone if we establish this all up front.

    Pretend you don't know you at all, Ellen, she said. Tell yourself about your life. You can talk to me if you want to, but mostly I want you to talk to yourself.

    At the end of this year, if I haven't already worked it out, we'll look through all the words and figure out what's wrong with me.

    I'm not sure how this is supposed to help. I told Trish I know words—I know them well—and they've never done anything except get me in trouble. But maybe I need more trouble in my life. Some big cataclysmic event or something...

    OCTOBER

    October 2 nd

    Nothing to see here.

    October 3 rd

    Nothing to see here. Except spilled coffee. Sorry Trish.

    October 5 th

    Oops. Missed a day.

    Note to self: Fill out tomorrow's journal entry before going to bed.

    Also: Call Trish and make an appointment.

    October 6 th

    Look. You had to know this was going to happen when you assigned this to me. There's nothing to write about. Nothing ever happens to me. Not Ever. I sit in a tiny office with a plant that's always on the brink of death and I write obituaries for a living. I don't have a love life (not that you aren't trying). I go to work. I go to Don's, or I come home and read sad poetry until bedtime. Sometimes I eat dinner with my parents while my father lectures me on all the ways I've screwed up my life. It's not exactly fodder for life-changing events. I wish something would happen to me—almost anything really.

    Note to self: Text Trish back. Tell her you have to have your appendix out. Or your tonsils. It doesn't matter as long as it translates to not meeting the guy she's pretending she didn't invite to dinner the same night she invited you.

    October 8 th

    I was in a waiting-induced coma at Dairy Queen when I saw the pavement-colored lump emerge from the bushes. A rat. The city should do something about that.

    I dismissed it.

    The lump slinked across the parking lot toward a dumpster, its long coat rippled, brushing the ground.

    Wait. Rats come with long hair?

    The creature emitted an un-rat-like sound, warning a sparrow who'd landed near some scattered trash at the base of the dumpster.

    Rats don't sound like that. And they don't have long coats. What the hell is it?

    I had a sudden need to get a closer look at the small, not-rat creature. Ignoring the surprised honk of the driver behind me, I pulled my car out of line and into a nearby parking space.

    As I got out and approached, he raised his head. Bright, black eyes glinted at me through a curtain of gray mats, ears flashing forward and back. Somewhere under all that filthy hair was a dog. Hope, suspicion, and hunger passed across its face like a slide show.

    It froze and stared at me, ready to flee, but not willing to retreat.

    I knew the feeling. That’s how I live my life.

    We observed one another while everything—engines idling, cooling fans shutting on and off, the voice of the girl taking orders, and the stares of the drivers—became a faint backdrop.

    It's not supposed to be this way, he seemed to say.

    No. No, it's not.

    I knelt on one knee, afraid to speak for fear of spooking him.

    We stared at one another and for an instant I could see myself through his eyes—a short, dark-haired woman in jeans and a t-shirt who probably looked like a pale twelve-year-old boy who didn't get outside enough. And I understood why he wasn't anxious to make my acquaintance. If anyone could look complicated, it would be me.

    I didn't know what I was doing. Or why I knelt there on the concrete among the wrappers. But I couldn’t walk away without feeling like a crummy human being.

    I remembered my grandmother, Oma Ghertz, and her ancient Schnauzer, Nicholas. I was five when they moved in with us and I loved the idea of having a dog.

    During his first twenty-four hours, he bit two maids and the maintenance man who carried Oma's belongings into her room. He wrapped up the day in style by biting my father. I haven't a clue what Dad did wrong, but he was probably yelling while he did it. My nanny ordered me to keep my distance from the dog. I was heartbroken.

    Then one rainy afternoon Oma taught me a trick she withheld from everyone else. She sent my nanny off on an errand. Then she explained the rules.

    Nicholas speaks two languages, she said with her thick German accent. German and food. She sat me on the floor with a fist-full of treats and instructed me to wait for his approach. Within minutes, he ate treats from my small fingers and made me laugh with the tickle of his pink tongue. I played with Nicholas every day after that, and I learned German from my grandmother so I could speak to him. It's one of the few childhood memories I like to replay. So perhaps Oma and Nicholas had something to do with why I was kneeling on the cold, rough pavement of a fast food parking lot tonight practicing a half-forgotten language.

    I spoke aloud to the small dog who seemed to be waiting for me to make up my mind. Bist du hungrig? Are you hungry?

    The ears rose and fell.

    So, I take it you don't have a German grandmother? The chill of the pavement seeped through the fabric of my jeans. But I was afraid to move.

    He sniffed the ground, found an interesting spot and licked at it, his eyes never leaving my face.

    How about I shut up and go get you some real food?

    He gazed at me. This dog was no good at answering questions. I didn't blame him. I don't talk to strangers unless someone pays me to.

    I hurried across the parking lot, trying to ignore the stares of curious onlookers. Inside, I bought two burgers and two fries.

    I returned to find him scuttling across the backside of the parking lot, wrapper still between his teeth. Hey! Wait! I yelled, realizing my mistake the moment the words left my mouth.

    He sped up and disappeared into the bushes.

    I stood there stupidly with my bag. What did I expect? A cozy little picnic for two sitting in the trash, sharing bites with the sparrows?

    Upset and embarrassed, I got back in my car, hoping no one from the drive-thru line noticed. But of course, they did. I could feel their eyes on me as I crossed the parking lot with my bag of rapidly cooling fast food.

    I pulled out the French fries, shoving two into my mouth at a time.

    My cell rang. Friedrich Ghertz. My father.

    Well. Shit.

    I put him on speaker phone, so I could continue eating my pain uninterrupted. I am fairly sure the guys who invented fast food had fathers who drove them to frying potatoes and stuffing them in their mouths.

    His voice filled my small car. Where are you?

    On my way home from work.

    Such as it is. Reminding me for the thousandth time I wasn’t living up to my potential.

    We Ghertz don’t aspire to be newspaper reporters. Nor do we live in our parents' basement because the only work we can get in our field pays the equivalent of minimum wage and consists of writing obits and editing other people's work. Ghertz's don’t work at minimum wage jobs—they run corporations. They don’t edit other people's work—they yell at them for making mistakes and then leave them to figure out how to fix them.

    It would be wrong to ask my mother if she ever cheated on my father and if I'm the result. But I'm sure he's wondered the same thing.

    What do you want, Dad? Two more French fries in my mouth. Chewing. Two more in my hand, poised to fill the emptiness.

    Your mother wants me to remind you of the dinner party we're having to celebrate your brother's promotion.

    The one you gave him, I didn’t say, because my smart-ass comments are always funnier in my head. Noted.

    Also, your rent is due in a week.

    Mother wanted you to remind me my rent is due?

    No. I'm reminding you.

    Thank you. I'm never late. He knows that.

    My father doesn’t need my money. What he needs is to remind me I am inadequate, and I owe him something. My scrivener’s job and paying him rent gives him this opportunity.

    And the muffler on your car needs work. The neighbors are complaining about the noise.

    It isn't that loud. And chances are, the neighbors aren't the ones who are complaining. He is. I will as soon as I can.

    He snorted. You mean as soon as you can afford it. Which will be never at the rate you're going…

    I let him run through all the reasons why I'm a failure. These conversations follow a predictable pattern and arguing with him only prolongs it. He'll run on for a while, I'll pretend I'm listening, he'll get it out of his system, and hang up. Then I'll sit alone and ponder the tragic comedy of life choices that led me to stuffing my face with lukewarm fries in a fast food parking lot.

    Is there comfort in predictability, even when the familiar outcome is horrible? Must remember to ask Trish.

    The bushes twitched and the shadows rippled. I stopped in mid-chew.

    The rat-dog emerged and circled the dumpster, pausing from time to time to stare at the top. One of the lids stood open and his nose told him there was more food to be had if he was strong enough and fast enough.

    The matted little canine backed up several feet, stilled for a long second, then seemed to gather himself. His toenails scrabbled across on the pavement as he rocketed forward. Pushing off, he flew through the air. I held my breath as his front feet caught the lip of the dumpster, his back legs scrambling for purchase. But it wasn't quite enough to launch him over the edge.

    He tumbled to the ground, landing with a solid thump.

    Too high, I said without thinking.

    My father paused in the middle of his lecture and barked—What?

    Nothing.

    He continued. Something, something...You should have finished college with a degree in business. Instead, you majored in a degree that is equal to underwater basket weaving… Something, something

    The tiny dog backed up further this time, running harder, and jumping higher. This time he cleared the ledge, landing firmly on the top. He stood for a moment, glanced toward the store and the waiting customers, then scurried over to the opening.

    It's now or never.

    Dad's voice rose, getting louder. Something, something-When do you plan to grow up? When are you going to realize—

    Hey, Dad, I gotta go. I hung up before I even realized what I'd done.

    Holy shit. I hung up on my father.

    Does that count as a breakthrough?

    The dog peered inside the dumpster as I eased the car door open, stepping into the summer air full of the smells of cooking food, exhaust, and hot asphalt. As I walked, I unwrapped the burger and tore off a large bite. I stood on my toes to see over the edge of the dumpster and held out the chunk of meat and bread.

    He whipped around and froze, staring at me. His eyes traveled to the food in my hand, and his nose twitched.

    I set the food on the lid, pushed it toward him, and took two steps back. He wasted no time in pouncing on it and wolfing it down. I planted another piece in the same place, not bothering to step back this time. He gulped it without chewing. The next he snatched from my fingers. While he continued taking food from my hands, I argued with myself.

    Inner adult: You should leave the rest right here. You should put it down for the little guy and just let him eat his dinner in peace. That's what a grown-up Ghertz would do.

    Inner child: A grown-up Ghertz wouldn't have gotten out of the damned car.

    Inner adult: You always were a little smart ass…

    While the debate raged, I stroked him with one hand while feeding him with the other. I really shouldn't be doing this.

    But my heart and arms were in league. One bite of hamburger later, I was holding him. A few more and I was carrying him across the parking lot.

    Then he was in my car, sitting in my lap. As we looked at one another, two things registered. He smelled awful, like a leather shoe worn by a never-bathed foot. And he was all bones, claws, and fur. He hadn't had a real meal in a long time.

    The dog lay against me, his heart drumming a one-two beat, the warmth of his shivering body pressed against me, his head under my chin. In that moment, we synchronized. Our hearts, our breathing, our thoughts. We were each other's resting place.

    You'll never be alone again. I don't know if I was talking to him or me or if it mattered.

    The trip home was nerve-racking. While he was happy enough to be near me, the little dog had never been in a car. He leaped from one side of the front seat to the other, panting, emitting a high-pitched whine, sometimes bouncing off me. We almost ran off the road when he crawled between my feet. I caught his tail when I stomped on the brake and pulled over. He protested when I put him in the back seat to keep us from winding up on a slab somewhere while my (hopefully tearful) parents looked on, pondering the question Where did she get the dog?

    I was too busy avoiding a wreck to regret my impulsiveness. Or to wonder how I’d handle my father when he discovered the dog.

    The guard at the front gate saw me approaching and opened it with a wave. Despite the awkwardness, living in my parents' basement has its perks. Blackstone Estates has great security, the guards speak to me by name, the neighbors don't, and I never have to worry about being mugged while walking to my car.

    We wound through the neighborhood of towering homes and three-car garages, taking two lefts and a right into my parents' long, brick-lined driveway, following it around behind the house. It was dark outside when I unlocked the door to my apartment, formerly known as the maid's quarters.

    Within an hour of being home, I realized I had no idea what to do with a dog. I fed him what I had in my fridge—a can of mushroom soup and meatloaf. Afterward, he wrecked my carpet. I cleaned it up and prayed the carpet shampooers my mother hires every six months would be able to remove the stain.

    As enamored as I was with this furry little creature, I couldn't take the smell any longer and decided to bathe him.

    The minute the water struck his body, he wailed like a tornado siren and didn’t stop, no matter how many times I reassured him I wasn't drowning him. The door at the top of the stairs slammed into the wall, and I winced. That's when I remembered how many times I asked for a dog of my own after Oma and Nicholas passed away, and how he'd said, Animals are dirty, an unnecessary expense, and you're not responsible enough to have one.

    Each step vibrated under the clump of my father's large feet. This would get worse before it got better.

    I'd just washed the shampoo out of the dog's coat and had the towel in my hand when my father jerked the door open without knocking.

    As is typical of Dad, he has a way of filling a room up when he enters. It's not just his six foot, two hundred and seventy-pound bulk; it's how he gives the surrounding space a sweeping, take-no-prisoners glare, and uses his voice to remind everyone he owned all he beholds, even when he doesn't.

    I didn't need to turn around to see his red-faced fury. My father has no half-speed.

    When he leaned around me to see what I was wrestling with in the sink, he bellowed. What the hell is that animal doing in here?

    I'd have to play my hand carefully. With my back still to the room, I wrapped the dog in a towel and lifted him. He quieted the second I put my arms around him. I peered over my shoulder.

    Dad's round face, framed by close-cropped, barely-there gray hair, had gone from red to purple.

    I remained silent.

    Goddamn it, Ellen, answer me.

    I toweled the dog dry, acting as though I had all day. Hold on, I told my father. Just a minute, and Wait, while forming an elaborate lie, as is my habit with Dad. By the time I turned around, I'd formed a story. I was ready to tell him, He's not mine. I'm keeping him for a friend who's out of town for a month. That was a poorly constructed lie, but I was improvising. I've been lying to my father for so many years; you'd think I'd be better at it.

    The dog shifted in my arms, turning his head to study my father. Maybe he sensed he too needed to practice diplomacy. Or he'd finally exhausted himself. Or he realized the towel was warm.

    I opened my mouth to recite my lie, the words waiting just at the back of my throat in my epiglottis where good words should always be waiting. But the dog got in the way. With his muzzle pressed against my chest, he sighed.

    I'll pay a pet deposit.

    As I recall, you don't have any money, which is why you're still living under my roof and can't afford to fix your car.

    Just name your price, Dad. I'll come up with it.

    Fine. I want five-thousand dollars.

    Holy shit. What do you think he'll do? Burn the place down?

    He looked triumphant. Five thousand or he goes. Now. Tonight.

    My emergency credit card. Which I only have because my mother insisted I needed it You need to be prepared for the unexpected. What if your car breaks down in a strange town somewhere? After it arrived, I threw it in a drawer and forgot about it, because I never go anywhere.

    Unexpected dogs count as emergencies, don't they?

    I can give you a thousand right now.

    Five-thousand.

    I was so angry I was shaking. I don't have five-thousand dollars. That's why he chose the amount. And he didn't care if the dog made me happy. All he cared about was getting his way. If he hadn't looked so damned triumphant, he might have won the war of wills.

    Fifteen hundred. The thousand-dollar limit was supposed to keep me out of trouble. Clearly, it was a flawed plan.

    Where am I going to come up with another five hundred?

    But there's something narcotic about the smell of a damp, grateful small dog. It goes to your head, convincing you that you can do the impossible.

    Five thousand.

    Dad, I'm offering you every penny I have available so I can keep a ten-pound dog. Aren't you in the least bit interested in knowing why?

    I'm interested in getting that animal out of my house. If it was possible for a human to swell with the belief in an impending victory, he did.

    My fury increased fourfold. Being angry with my father was a normal state of existence. But this was a new level and with it came a sort of foolish euphoria. I was willing to do anything to keep this dog. Including risking homelessness. For one wild moment, I was prepared to take the thousand dollars from the credit card and move into a fleabag motel room until further notice

    But once again, my mouth got the better of my common sense. I drew on a lie I only rely on when my back is against the wall. Like the time I wanted to go on a school trip instead of spending the holidays with my family.

    Do you remember what yesterday was, Dad?

    His face changed several times, but you had to have grown up with him to see the shifts in expression. He racked his brain, trying to decide if he'd missed something important. No.

    It was my birthday.

    I watched his face as he processed this. He can't remember from year to year when my birthday is. In and of itself, this doesn’t make him feel guilty. But if he reveals to my mother he can't remember when it is, she will make sure he does. It's her superpower. He'll do anything to avoid that.

    I want this little dog for my birthday. Nothing else.

    He stood there for a long second, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his color from red to purple, his lips opening and closing silently, like he was suddenly unable to breathe air. At last, his mouth snapped shut and he stormed back the way he came. His final order reverberated down the stairwell. I want five hundred on my desk in the morning, Ellen.

    The door slammed behind him. It vibrated in its frame with decreasing intensity as my father's take-no-prisoners and shoot the wounded footsteps receded.

    Five hundred was a lot less than five thousand. In fact, it was less than the thousand I'd offered.

    Did I just win? I don't have anything to compare this to, so I don't know. But it seemed like one of those victory-dance moments I'd heard so much about.

    I fixated on the knob, thinking about the ease with which he'd entered. Why do I allow him to do that? I'm not a child anymore. And I pay rent. Not much rent, but I pay on time every month.

    Tenants have rights.

    Winners have rights.

    I have rights.

    With the dog still in my arms, I locked the door. He and I were now in open rebellion against the Empire. I looked at my dog. His tail wagged.

    Happy birthday to us, I guess. I stroked his head, and the tail sped up. For the first time, his little pink tongue swept the side of my face.

    After the dog was dry, and I'd changed clothes, I seated myself in my armchair, propped my feet on the coffee table, and called my therapist and best friend, Trish. Who also just happens to have dogs. (You're welcome, Trish).

    Let me get this straight. You picked up a random mutt in a parking lot and brought him home? In the background, her husband Kevin's voice rose, and she shushed him, asking him to make sure their daughter got her homework done.

    I studied the dog. He still needed a haircut, but I could see that his true color was more silver than gray. It gleamed in the lamplight as he made a circuit around the living room, looking under and behind furniture, strolling across end tables, jumping up onto the kitchen table and licking at interesting smelling spots. I seem to remember Don telling me dogs shouldn't be allowed on furniture and I wondered if I should let him do that. Uh. Right.

    And he's already forced a confrontation between you and your father?

    She had a point. I typically go out of my way to avoid arguing with Dad. I either comply or at least appear to until he looks away again. Yeah. His explorations done for the time being, he checked out the couch, first sitting in it, then laying down, his bright, button-black eyes watching me.

    She chuckled. I like this dog. How did you talk your dad into letting you keep him? He doesn't care for dogs much, does he?

    I don't even recall telling you that, Trish.

    I told him yesterday was my birthday.

    But your birthday is in March.

    He doesn't know that. Ordinarily, this admission would be accompanied by a moment of feeling sorry for myself. Just then, I felt powerful.

    She sighed an echoey sort of sigh. The kind that manages to be both sympathetic and exasperated at the same time. Ellen.

    I'm giving him a five-hundred-dollar pet deposit, I added. So, I guess I'll have to skip the next couple of sessions. She'd offered to take me on for free, but she deserves compensation for listening to me on a bi-weekly basis. Ours is a friendship in which money and goods regularly exchanges hands. I pay for therapy sessions. Trish tells me things a best friend should say. Later Trish buys me clothes with the money I pay her, so I arrive for blind dates not looking like I was dressed by a bag lady.

    I'm fairly sure I've been replaced anyway. Call me when you're ready to taper off those antidepressants.

    Trish wasn’t the therapist who prescribed the anti-depressants. I was twenty-two, still in college, and had just changed my major from business to journalism. When my father got word of this, he called me to scream at me about all the ways I was failing. He informed me he would no longer be paying for my college education. A few days later, I found myself in a doctor's office telling the man all my problems—most of which centered around Dad—and asking whether I should buy a plane ticket to some small country somewhere or get a tattoo some place embarrassing and change my major back to business. He suggested antidepressants and therapy instead.

    The little dog rose and jumped from the armchair to the couch and laid down on the cushion beside me. Not close enough to touch me, but within petting distance. No one could replace you, my dear, I told Trish. So now what? Do I let him sleep in my bed? Buy him a kennel-thingy like you have?

    The first thing you need to do is take him to the vet. And while you're there, have them check him for a chip.

    A microchip? Being me, I imagined government conspiracy type stuff. Sort of Big Brother is watching you, but more like, Big Brother is using your dog to watch you.

    That's really a thing? I asked.

    Trish knows me all too well. Her reply is patiently amused. For identification. In case they get lost.

    Oh. Though I'd only had him for a few hours, the idea of him belonging to anyone but me made me want to cry. And I don't cry, by the way.

    The dog licked my fingers, his tail wagging for the first time. Who the hell would let their dog get into this condition? I said in my new role as his defender.

    Lots of people, sadly enough. But it's also possible someone lost him somehow and has no idea where to find him.

    I didn't like it, but she was right.

    She also suggested I lay off the cream of mushroom soup and buy him some kibble instead if I didn't want to pay to replace all the carpeting in this place. Then she reminded me of the dinner invitation I've been pretending I didn't get.

    I assured her I would be there, and she offered to help me coordinate an outfit. Trish's sense of what does and doesn't look good on me is a well-honed skill. She's been doing it since college. For her own part, she would look good in anything—including my dismal wardrobe.

    However, the comment was a dead giveaway that this was going to be another blind date.

    I thanked her and promised not to show up dressed like a bag lady. I had no intention of showing up at all, so I could keep that promise.

    After I hung up, I studied the small animal laying on my couch. He stared at me as though waiting to see what was next.

    I've got to call you something, don't I? He raised his head. Do you have a preference? Rat? Rex? Spot? Ralph? Rags? I threw words out at random. The dog rose and jumped from the couch to my chair, perching on the arm.

    Now that he wasn't a whirling dervish of activity, I could take in the details of his face—noting the squareness of it, the length of his nose, and the steady, dark eyes.

    I considered naming him after Nicholas but rejected it. He needed something of his own.

    I ran through another short list of names, saying some of them aloud as I thought about dogs I'd read about in literature. Buck? Toto? Fang? Argos? None of them fit.

    Maybe you're not a character in a book. Maybe you’re a writer. I scanned the spines of the many books lining my bookshelves on the opposite wall. I felt sure he didn't have a poet's soul, nor did he seem like the sort who would live in a Virginia Woolf story, which let out most of them.

    Sorry dog. I'm a writer which means I'm capable of complicating the simplest tasks. I scratched him under the chin. But I should be better at this.

    His tail wagged. Just behind him, on the end table, sat a plaque Don gave me as a graduation gift when I got my Masters.

    I have no idea how to write a column, but nobody seems to have noticed.

    — Emmett Watson: Seattle Columnist from 1946 to 2001

    I looked from the dog to the plaque and back. I didn’t remember a lot about the old reporter, but I did remember Emmett Watson didn't do anything according to formula which garnered him a fair amount of notoriety. I also remembered he had a poodle named Tiger, which he'd written entire columns about.

    You don't look much like a tiger, though. Besides, it wasn't all that unique as names go and I wanted him to have a name all his own. He studied me, his eyes a pool of questions and concerns. I had the impression I was still being weighed and measured. Maybe an Emmett?

    At the sound of my voice, he climbed into my lap. Emmett, I repeated, and he pressed himself against me. I suspected the old reporter would not mind having a dog named for him. I wrapped my arms around his small, warm body. He placed his head under my chin, his sigh a soft song of joy.

    Emmett, I whispered in time to our matching heartbeats. Emmett...

    Note to self: Finish Flanders Obit by Tuesday and refill Citalopram

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