I knew Macho would be gone, adopted to his permanent family, by the time I got home from work on Saturday. Still, when I opened the front door, I glanced toward the dining room, half expecting to see the big lug ambling over to greet me. He'd even started wagging his tail (a huge step) upon my arrival.
But alas. On the floor by the front window were the blue quilt and the white one. There were the two Milk Bones he never really liked.
Then I saw the crate (the HUGE crate, I might add) in the kitchen. My heart jumped. Maybe his new family had had second thoughts! Maybe they were still iced in! (despite temperatures that had climbed above the freezing point). Maybe maybe maybe...
Or, the most likely maybe of all, it awaits our next foster dog. One the cats might hide from for 36 hours before garnering their bravado, their affection, their awe for this big ol' lummox. One who loves a quilt fresh from the dryer, a little peanut butter mixed with his food. One whose soulful eyes have seen more than we really need or can bring ourselves to know.
Meanwhile, the crate is empty. The front window is, too. But after my runs, I still glance at it, expecting to see the face that, for two precious weeks, welcomed me home.
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