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Authors: Doranna Durgin
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lot in the past few days."
Whatever it might have been.
Emily, a sheaf of papers in hand, leaned against the kitchen archway and nodded at her daughters. "They're okay with him?"
"Even if he has one of his... moments , he's not going to do anything to hurt them," Brenna said, repeating the reassurance she'd given Emily on the phone. "If he was going to bite, he'd have nailed me by now." Given what she'd put him through, and how frightened he'd been at moments. Definitely not a fear-biter. Fear-freaker, now... that label, she'd paste on him. "I'd be more concerned about what two little girls could do to him —if they weren't yours."
"Okay, you get points for that last bit," Emily said. "Come sit down. Want some soda?"
"Anything decaf," Brenna said. It was, after all, her day off. She took a seat at the table, in a kitchen that was the antithesis of her own—too new to carry the hint of generations past, bright and open and airy. And peach-colored. Every time she came here, Brenna left with an impulse to paint her own kitchen, but when she got home she would realize again just how many other things needed attention, too—a new sink would have been outstanding—and so never got around to any of it. "What'd you find out?"
"A whole lot of nothing, I'm afraid," Emily said, pulling a one-liter bottle of Sprite out of the refrigerator and hunting through the freezer for ice cube trays that actually held ice. "The girls were delighted to play detective for you, but they couldn't find any kennel with the name of Nuadha, no matter what the breed. They did find the Web site for the national Cardigan club, and emailed the contact person. You gotta love email—they got an answer just a few moments ago." She set a glass in front of Brenna, but her expression didn't hold any triumph. She sat across from Brenna and pulled the coated elastic band from her ponytail, only to re-gather her shoulder-length hair and confine it again.
"Don't tell me," Brenna said, and felt all of her hopes for an easy resolution to Druid's fate fade to nothingness. "They haven't heard of any such kennel, either."
"They suggested that it was a fanciful call name as opposed to the dog's actual kennel name."
"With champion at the front of it?"
Emily shrugged. "Don't ask me. I don't know anything about this sort of thing. Now, if you want to talk cross-stitch—"
Brenna waved her to silence and Emily smirked. Any time Brenna became too full of jargon in her talk of dogs, Emily—who cross-stitched like a fiend and regularly sold patterns to stitchwork magazines—interrupted with chatter of her own specialty. "Well, the point is that we aren't going to locate the owner through them. Or even through the Web, it seems."
"You really ought to get yourself a computer," Emily said. "You could keep business records on it—"
" What business records?" Brenna snorted.
"— if you had your own business, and you'd be surprised what kind of resource the web can be. You know the girls would be glad to show you how to use it, or you could go to the library—they run little classes on using the Internet all the time."
"Yeah, yeah," Brenna said, by way of saying, you're right but we both know I'm not going to rush out and do anything about it . "Let me get this dog squared away first."
"Looks like that could be a while." Emily sipped her own soda, and raised an eyebrow at Brenna.
"Don't remind me. I'm going to be in trouble with this one, Em."
Emily shook her head. "I don't know why you keep breaking your heart, taking these dogs in. If you're going to do it, hand them straight over to animal control, why don't you? Quit pouring yourself into them and fixing all their woes only to have to give them up."
"If I didn't fix
Whatever it might have been.
Emily, a sheaf of papers in hand, leaned against the kitchen archway and nodded at her daughters. "They're okay with him?"
"Even if he has one of his... moments , he's not going to do anything to hurt them," Brenna said, repeating the reassurance she'd given Emily on the phone. "If he was going to bite, he'd have nailed me by now." Given what she'd put him through, and how frightened he'd been at moments. Definitely not a fear-biter. Fear-freaker, now... that label, she'd paste on him. "I'd be more concerned about what two little girls could do to him —if they weren't yours."
"Okay, you get points for that last bit," Emily said. "Come sit down. Want some soda?"
"Anything decaf," Brenna said. It was, after all, her day off. She took a seat at the table, in a kitchen that was the antithesis of her own—too new to carry the hint of generations past, bright and open and airy. And peach-colored. Every time she came here, Brenna left with an impulse to paint her own kitchen, but when she got home she would realize again just how many other things needed attention, too—a new sink would have been outstanding—and so never got around to any of it. "What'd you find out?"
"A whole lot of nothing, I'm afraid," Emily said, pulling a one-liter bottle of Sprite out of the refrigerator and hunting through the freezer for ice cube trays that actually held ice. "The girls were delighted to play detective for you, but they couldn't find any kennel with the name of Nuadha, no matter what the breed. They did find the Web site for the national Cardigan club, and emailed the contact person. You gotta love email—they got an answer just a few moments ago." She set a glass in front of Brenna, but her expression didn't hold any triumph. She sat across from Brenna and pulled the coated elastic band from her ponytail, only to re-gather her shoulder-length hair and confine it again.
"Don't tell me," Brenna said, and felt all of her hopes for an easy resolution to Druid's fate fade to nothingness. "They haven't heard of any such kennel, either."
"They suggested that it was a fanciful call name as opposed to the dog's actual kennel name."
"With champion at the front of it?"
Emily shrugged. "Don't ask me. I don't know anything about this sort of thing. Now, if you want to talk cross-stitch—"
Brenna waved her to silence and Emily smirked. Any time Brenna became too full of jargon in her talk of dogs, Emily—who cross-stitched like a fiend and regularly sold patterns to stitchwork magazines—interrupted with chatter of her own specialty. "Well, the point is that we aren't going to locate the owner through them. Or even through the Web, it seems."
"You really ought to get yourself a computer," Emily said. "You could keep business records on it—"
" What business records?" Brenna snorted.
"— if you had your own business, and you'd be surprised what kind of resource the web can be. You know the girls would be glad to show you how to use it, or you could go to the library—they run little classes on using the Internet all the time."
"Yeah, yeah," Brenna said, by way of saying, you're right but we both know I'm not going to rush out and do anything about it . "Let me get this dog squared away first."
"Looks like that could be a while." Emily sipped her own soda, and raised an eyebrow at Brenna.
"Don't remind me. I'm going to be in trouble with this one, Em."
Emily shook her head. "I don't know why you keep breaking your heart, taking these dogs in. If you're going to do it, hand them straight over to animal control, why don't you? Quit pouring yourself into them and fixing all their woes only to have to give them up."
"If I didn't fix
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