Читать онлайн «Only Yours»

MONTANA HENDRIX’S PERFECTLY good morning was thwarted by a hot dog, a four-year-old boy and a Lab and golden retriever mix named Fluffy.

Things had started out well enough. Montana had been determined to get the nearly a year old dog into a therapy-dog training program. Sure, Fluffy was exuberant and clumsy, with a habit of eating anything and simply being too happy, but she had a huge heart. If she was, in simple terms, a screwup, Montana refused to hold that against her. Montana knew what it was like to fail to meet her potential, to always feel she wasn’t good enough. She’d made a career out of it. Fluffy was not going to suffer the way she had. And even if she was projecting a little too much on to an innocent dog, well, sometimes that happened.

So there she was, on a beautiful Fool’s Gold summer morning, walking Fluffy…or, rather, being walked by Fluffy.

“Think calm,” Montana, holding firmly on to the leash, told the dog. “Therapy dogs are calm. Therapy dogs understand restraint. ”

Fluffy gave her a doggie grin, then nearly knocked over a trash can with a sweep of her ever-moving tail. Restraint wasn’t in Fluffy’s vocabulary. She was barely calm in her sleep.

Later Montana would tell herself she should have seen it coming. This particular morning was the first weekend after school had let out and there was a festival to celebrate. Street vendors had been setting up for days. Although it was early, the smell of hot dogs and barbecue filled the air. The sidewalks were crowded and Fluffy kept pulling toward the children playing in the park.

Up ahead, a mother paid for a hot dog. Her young son took it eagerly, but before he took a bite, he spotted Fluffy. The boy grinned at Fluffy and held out the food. At that exact moment, Montana was distracted by the latest display in Morgan’s Bookstore and accidentally loosened her grip. Fluffy lunged, the leash slipped and that was when the trouble started.

Offering a hot dog from a distance might have seemed like a good idea…until a ninety-pound dog came barreling toward the little boy. He shrieked, dropped the hot dog and ran behind his mother. The poor woman had missed the beginning of the encounter. All she saw was a crazy-looking dog headed right for her and her son. She screamed.

Montana started after Fluffy, yelling for her to stop. But it was as effective as telling the earth to slow down its rotation.

The mother scooped up her little boy and ducked behind a lemonade stand. Fluffy picked up the hot dog without breaking stride and swallowed it in one gulp, then kept on going. Apparently freedom called.

Montana hurried after her, the new summer sandals she’d bought the week before cutting into her feet. She knew she had to get Fluffy. The dog was sweet, but not very well trained. Montana’s boss, Max Thurman, had made it clear that Fluffy was not therapy-dog material. If word of today’s disaster reached him, he would insist the dog leave the program. Montana couldn’t stand for that to happen.