Chapter 1 - THAT’S MY DOG
“That’s my dog—I never stopped looking for her!”
The blonde woman came at us fast enough that my first instinct was pure defense.
I jerked the black leash back against my chest, stepped in front of my dog, and planted myself between them on my driveway.
“Back up,” I snapped.
My dog—a big black-and-white merle with one blue eye and one brown—shifted anxiously between us, her nails clicking on the concrete. She pressed against my leg the way she always did when strangers raised their voices.
But this woman was not acting like a stranger.
She was shaking.
Really shaking.
Not the kind of anger people perform when they want attention. The kind that comes when grief hits a wall and suddenly starts screaming.
She thrust a handful of old photos toward me with one hand while wiping tears with the other.
Puppy photos.
Vet papers.
A picture of this exact dog as a younger, fluffier version of herself—same marbled coat, same white blaze down the chest, same little black mark near the left ear.
I swallowed hard but kept the leash tight.
“Animal control cleared her,” I said. “I adopted her legally. She’s my family now.”
The woman’s face twisted.
“I didn’t give her up.”
I tightened my grip again.
The dog looked from me to her, ears half-back, body tense.
The woman took one step closer and reached toward the collar.
I blocked her arm instinctively.
“No.”
For one second I thought she might fight me.
Instead, something in her seemed to collapse.
She stopped pulling.
Stopped arguing.
Then, with tears running openly down her face, she slowly sank to her knees on the driveway.
The dog froze.
The woman lifted one trembling hand and gave a signal I had never seen before—two fingers to her chest, then a small outward sweep.
“Mabel…” she whispered. “Home.”
My dog’s ears snapped up so suddenly it made my heart stop.
She went completely still.
Then she let out a soft, almost broken whine and pulled hard toward the woman.
I loosened my grip without meaning to.
The blonde woman started crying harder.
Then she whispered one more command.
“Paw to heart.”
The dog stepped forward, lifted one paw, and pressed it flat against the woman’s chest.
I stared.
My hand was still on the leash, but I was no longer pulling back.
“How,” I heard myself whisper, “does she still remember that?”
And in that moment, before either of us said another word, I realized the worst possible thing.
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This woman was not trying to steal my dog.
She was trying to get her back.
