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The mother had been skeptical of a strange dog during the first encounter, but when Gen had laid nicely outside the pen and gently touched noses with her pups, eyes still closed and noses rooting at the stray tufts of fur poking through the pen bars, she seemed to relent.
This time, Gen had followed them into the midst of the rough and tumble pups, now old enough to leave their mother, and seemed content to let them explore, so long as they didn’t try to nurse.
Abby slipped a hand into her bag and drew out the first of a pair of tiny, red vests. She turned it over in her hands, nails scraping the raised, embroidered letters—Genesis Therapy Dogs: Puppy in Training—and handed it to Dylan. The other, she slipped over the head of a little black male, the one she’d chosen when he’d pranced up to Gen, confident as anything, and baited her with a length of tug rope.
She snuggled the male against her cheek, the rough fiber of his collar catching her skin, the tag tinkling against her earring. Like his sister’s, the front had Abby’s new logo stamped and the back had his ID number: 109. Scott’s Super Bowl-winning, MVP-earning, best he’d ever done quarterback rating.
Gen, half on her side with two other puppies still crawling all over her, stretched her head up to lick his nose.
Abby smiled as the puppy huffed a sneeze. “Hi, Raptor. Welcome to the family.”
Scott crouched beside his son and scratched the female under the chin. “What will you name yours?”
The puppy turned in Dylan’s lap, flopped down, and her eyes drifted closed. A deep sigh heaved through her body as she tucked her nose under Dylan’s elbow.
“I think I’ll name her Rêve. My teacher says it’s French fordream, and she’s my dream.” His eyes shone with happiness as he gazed up at Abby, his fingers drifting down the soft fur along her spine. “Is that okay, Mom?”
Abby twisted the gold band on her finger. “I think it’s perfect.”