Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Dutch.
God, for a guy I’ve never seen, he’s managed to make his way under my skin like no one has before. Even now I’m thinking about his last letter, about his parole hearing, and wondering how it went.
His letter was postmarked January 11 and it arrived yesterday, the 15th, so by now, he was either approved or denied and God how I wish I knew.
I know I’m just a pen pal. Someone that gives him hope in a hopeless world. Helps pass the time. And for all his compliments and kind words, I’m pretty sure out here in the real world, in real life, things would be quite different.
In one way, I feel like I don’t know much about him, but in another way, I feel like I know him as well or better than anyone else in my life. What I do know is this: he’s 27, was convicted of assault, had a few other juvenile and adult convictions for other minor violent and non-violent offenses. As for looks, I have no idea. James said he has dark hair and a beard. That’s all I know.
Dutch has mentioned a sister, but said the only contact he’s had with her in almost six years was a letter letting him know his father passed away year before last just before Thanksgiving. The lack of contact wasn’t even her choice. It was his, something to do with not wanting to ruin her life or put her in danger because of his choices. I guess that could be noble. But to me it’s just heartbreaking.
Even so, with that minimal amount of information, in my mind’s eye, thoughts of him send little butterfly flutters between my legs.
I shake my head. I need to stay focused. I can’t be daydreaming about a man I’ll never meet.
We’re all running on adrenaline as we move together though the yard toward the chain-link kennel we put up two months ago. Behind it, one of our baddest bitches on our route snarls as we approach, yanking her thick, aircraft-grade braided metal cable to its limit.
“Look at the fire in her eyes.” Audrey, one of our volunteers and a complete cherry when it comes to street smarts, backs away. “I think she’s going to come right through that fence.”
Danita is what I named the gray and white Stafford Terrier mix, but we call her Dani. A sort of female version of Daniel, which in Hebrew means, God is my Judge.
Her golden eyes speak to my heart.
So many years of being alone, hungry, and unloved have yet to be undone—if they ever will. If I could take her away from here, I would, but that’s not in our power. We do get owner surrenders as often as we can, but we can’t just take them. Word gets around. If we get a reputation for stealing dogs?
Might as well shoot ourselves.
Even though Dani is pissed, we don’t retreat. Once we have permission to do what we can for these dogs, we commit. We leave none behind, even when they tell us it might be what is safest for us.
“Maybe,” I answer Audrey, unswayed. “I fitted her with a new cable two weeks ago. She pulled a seven-inch eye bolt right out of the four-by-four we cemented in this spring. She thinks we need a challenge, I guess.”
Tiny clicks his tongue to get my attention, then tips his head toward the kennel as I glance at the back door to the house. “Daphne.”
My focus is on the resident and owner of Dani. She glares at me from the window, fierce and annoyed.
“Daphne,” Tiny says again, trying to draw my attention, “you need to whisper her before we all get up there. I see the red around her eyes. Not having a good day.”
I nod to the face in the window and give her a friendly wave. As much as I want to flip her off, making her angry will only make things worse for Dani when she bans us from her property.
Then I turn back to the task in hand.
“You’d be pissed too if you had to sleep outside in this fucking weather.” Even with the doghouse we provide and the straw we layer inside and outside the shelter, the suffering they endure out here damn near brings me to my knees.
Suddenly I have a memory of Dutch’s words from a letter last spring. I’d told him about my outreach program. His careful and deliberate, almost strained handwriting, every word clear in my memory, comes back to me as I take slow, even steps toward the snarling hundred-pound angry beauty.
I’m proud of you. I don’t know how you do what you do, but I wish I could help. I wish I could be there with you.
I wish you were, too, Dutch. I wish you were, too.