Requiem for a Soldier (Requiem #1)

Chapter 23: New Friend

"How was the helicopter ride, baby?" I ask the furry bundle. "Did you enjoy your flight?"

The puppy rolls on his side and I begin to rub his little fuzzy belly. When I scratch the side of his rib cage, his hind leg begins to kick reflexively. I hear Ryan chuckle again.

"Oh, do you like that? Is that the spot?" I coo to the dog. "You're a good boy. Yes, you are. Such a good boy."

As I continue to pet the puppy and talk to him, I hear Ryan get up and walk across the room. A few moments later, he returns with a dog toy. He sits across from me on the ground with a quiet grunt and holds up the toy. The puppy doesn't pay him any attention until Ryan squeezes the toy and it squeaks loudly. The puppy's head whips around to stare at the source of the noise, his adorable pointed ears standing to attention on his furry little head. He clumsily gets to his feet and trots over to Ryan, who waves the toy at the dog before tossing it a few feet away. The puppy bounds over to the toy and picks it up in his teeth, prancing around with it before begrudgingly allowing Ryan to take it back and throw it again.

We spend the next hour playing with the puppy, who proved to have boundless energy right up until the moment he crashed and fell asleep. I carry the sleeping puppy, who doesn't wake even when I pick him up off the floor, to the couch with me. As I sit, stroking the exhausted animal, Ryan moves the kennel, which seems much too large for the small dog, over to the corner of the living room. He carries an open box to the coffee table and I see more toys inside, along with brushes, dog shampoo, a collar, a leash, and other dog paraphernalia.

"Was it a good surprise?" Ryan asks quietly, though I doubt shouting would wake this dead-to-the-world puppy.

I look up at him and smile. "Yes. It was a very good surprise. Thank you."

Ryan looks away and a smile graces his lips.

"I thought you didn't want a dog, though."

He is quiet for a moment, looking at his hands. "I thought a dog might be good for you," he says finally. "Maybe for me too."

Ryan reaches into the box and pulls out a book titled Your Samoyed and You. He opens the book and begins to read silently. My eyes widen at the picture of a large, fluffy white dog on the front.

"Is he really going to get that big?" I ask.

Ryan flips to the front cover, then looks down at the dog in my lap. "He's got a lot of growing to do," he says.

"Where did he come from?" I ask.

Ryan opens the book again. "The modern Samoyed is descended from the herding dogs bred by nomadic reindeer herders in Siberia and Northern Russia. They were also used as sled dogs-"

"No, I mean where did you get him?" I cut him off.

He looks up at me and I watch as his expression quickly changes from something dark to calm and bland. "My sister is in the dog breeding business," he says. "I asked her to get one for me."

I smile down at the sleeping puppy in my lap. "I think she did a good job."

~~~

A few hours later, the puppy wakes up just as we finish eating lunch. He stands up and looks down at the floor a few feet below him. Then he barks at us, seemingly afraid of jumping off the couch.

"I'm going to take him outside," says Ryan. He spent the rest of the morning reading up on dog training and planned to have the puppy housebroken within a week. I smiled when he made that claim and wished him well.

I walk over to the squirmy puppy and pick him up. "Is this couch too tall for you?" I ask him. He tries to lick my face and I laugh. I carry the puppy to the porch, where I set him next to the stairs. He looks down forlornly at the ground but doesn't attempt the stairs. I look up as Ryan emerges from the cabin.

"You're going to have to carry him down the stairs," I say.

Ryan looks at the puppy thoughtfully, as though he might be able to bribe the animal. The dog responds by sniffing at a corner in the railing and squatting delicately.

"No, no!" we both say together, reaching for the dog. I grab him first and carry him down the stairs, setting him at the base. I'm not wearing shoes and the ground is still damp from last night's rain, so I'm not setting foot off the porch.

The small dog recovers from his abrupt interruption and transportation. He begins sniffing the ground for a new location. I return inside where it's warmer and begin unpacking the box that came along with the puppy. Ten minutes later, I peek outside to see what's keeping them. At first, neither man nor man's best friend is visible. I step out the door and look around. I see Ryan running across the yard, away from me. His limp is even more pronounced and he looks as though he might trip and fall flat on his face in the next moment. Concern surges up inside me, both for his health and for the reason he's running. Is the dog OK?

Then I see why he's running. The puppy is chasing him, bounding after him like a spring. I giggle at how cute the dog's frenzied running is. The puppy barks at Ryan as it chases him. He disappears behind the shed, the puppy hot on his heels, and when he emerges on the other side, his pace is slower. He looks up at me and stumbles, quickly shifting his gait to a walk. The puppy blindly crashes into his legs and I can't help laughing. Ryan picks up the dog and carries him up the porch stairs.

"Someone needs a bath," Ryan says, breathing a little hard. I survey the muddy dog and the man holding it.

"Who?" I ask, looking pointedly at Ryan's muddy flannel shirt.

He looks down and chuckles. "Maybe both of us. But he's going first unless you want mud all over the floor."

Half an hour later, there is a very fluffy, slightly damp puppy running around the cabin, evading all attempts to dry him with the hairdryer that arrived in the first shipment. Ryan left me to handle this deceptively difficult task while he took his own shower. When he emerges from the bathroom with damp hair, I blow warm air in his face. He looks at me, confused.

"Come here," I say. "Show the dog that the hairdryer isn't scary."

He looks at me skeptically. "I don't think that's going to work."

I point at one of the kitchen chairs. "Sit. As long as I've got this thing out, I might as well dry someone's hair."

With an expression that says I'd really rather not, he begrudgingly sits in the chair I indicated. Standing behind him and to the left, I hold up the hairdryer to his head and begin working. I don't have a brush aside from the one I just used on the dog, so I use my fingers to comb through his collar-length hair. On the right side of his scalp, near where his ear should be, there's a section of very rough scar tissue. When I touch it, Ryan flinches almost imperceptibly. As I'd suspected, he uses his long hair to hide the patch of missing scalp. His right ear is probably mostly missing as well, but I couldn't tell from the brief touch and I'm certainly not going to embarrass him by looking for it. As I dry his hair, I style it gently so that it's sure to cover the patch of scarring he guards so well.

I finish up drying his hair, running my hand through it to check for any damp spots. "You're done," I say, turning off the hairdryer. Instead of bolting like I would have expected him to, he stays seated there, silent. I pick up the dog brush and track down the furry creature, determined to dry him off one way or another.