Page 108 of Spying Under the Mistletoe
I open the front door. The father and mother are standing on the stoop, along with two kids, both under the age of ten.
“Hi. Landon?” the man says. “I’m Robert. And this is my wife, Mary, and our kids Chris and Lizzie.”
Two eager faces grin at me. “Is it true you have a puppy?” Lizzie asks.
“That’s right. Do you want to come inside and meet him?”
“Yes, please,” they say in near-perfect chorus.
I move aside to let them in.
“Remove your shoes first,” their mother reminds them before they can take a step into the house.
They practically charge inside, stopping long enough to fling their shoes across the floor.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “They’re really excited to meet Whiskey. But we haven’t told them yet that we’re adopting him. We wanted them to meet him first.”
I try smiling, but my lips don’t feel like cooperating. I nod instead.
Great. Now I’m a mute.
“Where is he?” Lizzie asks, reminding me of my students. She’s the same age.
“In the living room.” I point toward it.
We follow them and find the pair sitting on the floor next to Whiskey’s bed. With a little bark, he unfolds himself and steps over the side to the awaiting kids. They hold out their hands for him to sniff.
“Oh, he’s so adorable.” Mary crouches between her two kids and lets Whiskey sniff her hand. She then strokes him behind the ear, just like Chloe used to do.
As expected, he laps up the attention.
And my heart breaks.
In the short time I’ve been his foster daddy, his puppy teeth have dug into my heart the same way they do with his chew toys. And my cushions. And shoes.
Well, just about everything he can find.
I’ve fallen for him in the same way I’ve fallen for Chloe.
Okay, not quite the same way, but the sentiment’s the same.
The kids fuss over him, and he wags his tail at rapid speed. But then he wanders to me and parks his paws on my legs, tail still wagging. It’s his sign for “Daddy, I want up.”
I scoop him up and cradle him next to me. He cocks his head to the side, his eyes wide and hopeful.
He reaches up and licks my face.
This sets the kids off giggling.
I stroke his soft copper-colored fur, the shade slightly lighter than Chloe’s hair.
A string of memories decides this is a good time for a memory-lane montage. Of Chloe, when we collected Whiskey from the vet. Of her coming up with his name. Of her loving him unconditionally like he deserves. Of him loving her the same way.
Of the way he made her laugh—how he made us both laugh.
The idea of giving him away is a punch to the gut.
There’s an old saying that claims if you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they’re yours. If they don’t, they never were.
