Page 89 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

“An untrained, oversized wolf?” Dakota’s dad said, frowning.

Dasher, true to his name, sprinted back across the living room and leapt into my arms like he couldn’t believe I was there! With him! And there was wrapping paper to chase and garland to chew!

“No!” I pulled him away.

“Are you surprised?” Dakota gushed, hopping up and down.

“Yeah! A dog. I’ve always wanted a dog and seriously thought about adopting Dasher.”

The husky zoomed in a circle around the living room, making the little kids shriek and scattering coal and wrapping paper everywhere.

“I don’t know, though, Dakota,” I said. “He can’t stay in my apartment. You’ve seen it. It’s tiny. Not to mention, I travel.”

“I have pet sitters lined up,” Dakota said, pointing to her family.

“You need this dog,” Violet informed me. “He’s good PR.”

I fought Dasher for the Christmas stocking he’d found and started chewing on.

“It’s a step toward grandchildren,” Babs was chanting. “Grandchildren come next.”

“He needs a house with a yard,” Dakota’s father said emphatically. “You didn’t think this through, Dakota.”

Her uncles agreed, faces flat.

A knot formed in my stomach. Now that Dasher had been effectively adopted, I couldn’t just abandon him. But I also didn’t want Dakota’s father to hate me.

“He can’t go back to the shelter!” Gracie cried, tears in her eyes. “Look how happy he is!”

Dasher gave knocking down the Christmas tree another go. He barked excitedly, and his tail knocked the eggnog pitcher all over the pugs.

“Out!” Dakota’s dad bellowed. “Get him out of my house!”

I picked up Dasher and carried him to the front door.

“We’re not taking him back to the shelter,” Dakota yelled at her dad.

“Have a heart, Uncle Mark,” Gracie pleaded.

“You’re ruining my PR,” Violet complained as everyone massed to the front door.

Dakota’s uncles argued with her.

“He has to have a yard.”

“He needs a house.”

“That dog cannot live in an apartment. He’s going to tear up everything.”

“He just needs to be exercised,” Hudson argued. “Dog like that? He needs to be out in the snow ten miles a day. Shit, I’ll take him running in the mountains with me.”

“Not the pugs?” Gracie asked, trying to towel them off while Dasher licked them nervously.

“I’ll carry them in their backpack.” Hudson kissed her quickly.

I squeezed Dasher. He seemed to know that he’d blown it.

“Leave that poor man alone, Gracie,” one of the aunts scolded. “Hudson puts up with a lot from you.”

---