Chapter 7 – Chapter 7

"Isn't he a beaut?"

Rick stood there, at the fringe of the park field, still a bit apart from the group of dog owners who had gathered to sip coffee and gossip and watch their dogs dance out in the middle of the Penn Park field on a crisp Saturday morning. He didn't know what to say. A whole range of emotions coursed through his veins.

"Looks like Pete, doesn't he?" Mike said, trying to fill in the gap of Rick's silence. He didn't know whether this was wise or whether it would do the trick—and he hadn't known for sure if he even should be doing what he did nearly nonstop between last Saturday and this. It had been far more difficult and convoluted then he thought it would be. And the circumstances might cause it to backfire. It might be just too pushy.

"Yes, yes, he does." Tears were forming in Rick's eyes. His heart was racing. And there were just too many emotions churning inside and fighting with him at the moment for him to speak.

Mike decided just not to say anything until Rick did.

"Whose . . . whose is he?" Rick asked at long length. He couldn't take his eyes off the full-grown Sheltie racing around in the field, first chasing Rusty and being chased by Nail and then the three changing direction, not caring a bit which one was the chaser and which one was the chasee—as long as they were on the move, exercising their muscles like dogs of their breeds and size must do. The Sheltie broke away from the chase and started herding some of the smaller dogs, which were bewildered by the activity but which were amenable to this new game.

Before Mike could respond, Rick laughed. "Do you see him herding?" He asked. "That's the breeding. That's what Pete did."

"Yes," Mike said. He took a swig of his coffee. He was happy and relieved. That laugh had brought them across some sort of Rubicon, he thought. This might work after all.

"Whose is he?" Rick repeated.

"Nobody's. At least not now," Mike answered. This was it, he thought. There's no pretending this isn't what it is now.

"Nobody's?" Rick asked, and he turned to look at Mike, giving him a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

"He's on furlough, you could say," Mike answered. "I do this occasionally." (The first lie he had been prompted to give.) "He's in a shelter. His owner died and the shelter is trying to rehome him. They sometimes let me bring the better-behaved ones to the park on Saturdays—to help keep them exercised and alert and happy."

"He looks so much like . . . does he have a name?" Rick was looking at the Sheltie at play again. Mike took this as a good sign. The gantlet had been dropped and Rick hadn't stormed off the field.

And this was it. Showtime.

"Yep. His name's Peteson."

"Peteson," Rick repeated the name. "Peteson. Pete's son." He turned his eyes to Mike again.

"Yes, that's right, Rick. He was sired by Pete. Your Pete. Pretty clever of his owners to play on the name, don't you think?"

Rick met Mike's playful smile with one of his own. They both knew that this was the name Mike had given him. Before he could speak, though, Mike had continued.

"Took me nearly the whole week to find him. I checked with the vet. I knew your Pete was purebred, so I hoped . . . and I was right. Your father was breeding him. I guess you didn't know that. The man who had Peteson out there was the breeder you dad went to. He kept Peteson. The man died, though and Peteson there went to the shelter. That part wasn't in my plan. I just thought I'd try to track a puppy that was down the direct line from Pete. But this is first generation. Eight years old. Not a puppy, unfortunately."

They stood there in silence for the longest moment.

"In a shelter now?" Rick murmured at length.

"Yeah, but he's purebred. The people there think he'll be able to find a home. It's a no-kill shelter. Kinda old for placement, though."

Another long pause.

"Pete was twelve when I got him," Rick said.

"Yeah. Older dogs need homes too."

Mike looked down at his side, suddenly aware that he and Rick were holding hands, not knowing who had initiated that. Not caring. Not caring one bit who had made that move.

"I know a café that welcomes dogs—if we sit outside. Not far from here," Mike said. "Would you like to go for a cup of Joe?"

"Yes, yes. I'd like that very much."

"Or would you prefer a glass of water at my house?"

"Even better."