Home is where the dog is

When Max ran up the street to our place one night just before dinner, I knew from the sound of his voice that something was up.

‘Eli!’ he called out, even before his feet hit the porch. I swung the front door wide open.

‘Eli,’ Max puffed, ‘There’s a puppy —’

‘Where?’ I asked, looking over his shoulder.

‘No, no,’ he said, ‘Not here. Not here.’ He sucked in a breath.

‘Come in, Max,’ Dad said. ‘Grab a seat.’

Max sat down at the counter.

I hopped up on the stool next to him. ‘What’s happened?’

Max took a second, then the story came out in a big gush.

Max’s parents’ friend’s uncle’s second cousin — or something like that — owned a farm and kept working dogs. One of the dogs had just had pups and the family had more animals than they could manage. They were keeping one, and giving away the others. But there was one puppy left that they couldn’t find a home for.

‘And —’ said Max.

‘And?’ I said.

‘And, they’re going to take him to the pound if they haven’t found a home for him by the end of the week.’

‘The pound … that’s okay, isn’t it? Isn’t that where people looking for dogs go? It’s like a rescue shelter, right?’

‘Yeah, but … Mum says not all of the animals find new owners.’

‘What happens then?’ I asked.

Max looked at Dad. Dad looked down at his Ugg boots.

‘Dad?’ I said. ‘What happens then?’

Max gnawed on a fingernail.

Continue reading the extract here…

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