Page 95 of Burn Point

“Thank you so much for coming, dear,” she greeted, holding the door open for me.

“Of course,” I replied. Not that I’d had any choice in the matter when she’d demanded, “I need you to get over here right now.”

“I tried everyone,” she said. “Kylie is out hiking somewhere, and I can’t get ahold of Mike or Leah.” She ushered me through her little house, past the den, down a hall to a wood door. “I’ve been hearing this noise since yesterday. I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is, but it sounds like a distressed animal.”

Pulling open the back door and pushing through the screen onto a small patio, Mrs. O’Malley stopped just beyond. Pointing in the direction of a small shed, she then brought her finger back to her lips, indicating for me to be quiet.

Her back yard needed cutting, the bushes needed a good trim, a bird bath sat dry in the middle of a flower bed lining a wooden privacy fence. Hummingbird feeders hung from iron hangers at the edge of the patio.

We listened quietly for a few moments, the songbirds in the trees providing a lull in the background noise. Then I heard it. A faint, high-pitched whine coming from beyond the shed.

Mrs. O’Malley whipped her head to me, brows high on her forehead.

I nodded. “I’ll go check it out.”

I set out across the back yard, heart hammering, adrenaline picking up. What if it was some wild animal stuck under the shed? As I drew near, I could see the fence needed some repair. Holes along the bottom of the wood would’ve allowed any type of small critter access to the yard.

Unsure of what I would find, and a little bit scared that whatever it was might not be terribly nice, I began investigating the shed. I paused as I drew near, inspecting the windows and doors. They were both locked up tight.

The whine came again, this time a little bit louder.

“I’m trying to find you, little buddy. Keep talking to me,” I crooned to the animal. The whining increased and I followed the sound to the back of the shed, where the bushes were even more overgrown. Kneeling, I spotted a hole leading under the building.

I got close as I could and squatted, shining the light from my phone into the dark space. With a thumping heart, I prayed that whatever was in there didn’t have rabies and come rushing out to bite me.

“Hey there, little buddy, come out to the light.” I sounded like a stalker. If I were a scared animal, I wouldn’t trust me either. The animal shifted and whined again, as if in pain. My light passed over dark fur, but it didn’t come out.

I stood and turned to find Mrs. O’Malley halfway across the yard. “Do you have any food we could try to coax it out with?”

“I’ve got some chicken we could use. I’ll go grab it,” she said, turning back into the house.

“We’ll need a bowl of water too,” I called after her.

I returned to the hole under the building and cooed to the animal some more. “You can come out. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to feed you and get you unstuck.”

The animal shifted closer, and a small muddy paw stuck out. The hole was rather small, and I wondered if it couldn’t get out. I went into the shed and found a small shovel. Maybe if I dug the hole out a little whatever it was could get out easier.

I’d made two passes with the shovel, making the opening wider and deeper, when Mrs. O’Malley returned with food and water.

I crouched down, holding a bite size piece of the chicken out, waving it in front of the hole. “Come on, buddy, I’ve got some yummy chicken for you.”

That muddy paw peeked out again, followed by a black nose. Then the face of a precious puppy poked out of the opening, little nose twitching. With skittish eyes, the baby crawled from the hole and approached the food in my hand. Relief washed through me that it was a puppy and not a raccoon.

It was a little thing, short, with a long body, and covered in mud. I placed the chicken down in the bowl and sat back, giving it space to feel comfortable. Sitting patiently, I talked nonsense while I watched the puppy come fully out of the hole and approach the chicken.

“You’re a mess, aren’t you, sweet baby,” I cooed. “Did you hurt your leg? It’s okay, that chicken is all for you.” The scruffy little mess of a dog took a tentative bite, then returned for more.

Once it finished the food, the dog sniffed around, inching closer to me, as if wanting to trust me but scared to death. I waited until it was close, and offered my hand to smell, eventually able to scratch its dirty head. The change was immediate. The baby crawled its muddy little body into my lap and curled up.

“Well, looks like you got yourself a dog,” Mrs. O’Malley said quietly from behind me.

“This baby is a cutie-pie, that’s for sure,” I said wistfully. “I think it needs to go to the vet—looks like it has an injured leg.”

“Come in the house and let’s make some calls.”

An hour later, I left the vet’s office, puppy in tow, and headed to Nate’s. I glanced at the dashboard clock, noting I had plenty of time to get her cleaned up. In the backseat was a loaner leash and a sample bag of puppy food and treats.

The pup—I’d taken to calling her Gracie—sat in my lap, wrapped in a towel.

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