Goodbye George

I look at the sallow, sunken man in the hospital bed. It's hard to believe it's George. George, who weighed two hundred fifty pounds in his prime; who carried me across the threshold as a young bride; who wrestled suspects to the ground with ease; who was the hero of his detachment because he was the arm wrestling champion during the Kids for Cancer Sports Day for twenty years running. Ironic isn't it, that cancer stole his strength from him and it took his vitality and his very essence with it.

He's sleeping now, his breath is raspy and shallow. They'll come and give him more medication if it gets worse. There is nothing more they can do for him, except keep him comfortable. I can't believe it's nearly over. The doctor said he could go at any time.

What am I going to do without him? We've been together for fifty years. We celebrated right here in this damn hospital room only a few short weeks ago. The nurses have been so great. I couldn't do what they do – work on a ward where people come to die. Oh Lord, give me strength to see this through. I want to stay with him until the end, but it is so hard; so very hard watching the love of your life fade away.

I stand and move clumsily about the room. I need to stretch my legs a moment, I've been sitting a long time. There's not a lot of space to move – the bed, a chair, twenty-four inches give or take of walkway between the bed and the walls on either side. I watch my step in case I trip on cords or the corner of the metal dresser. I look out the window onto the empty, snow covered courtyard several stories down. It would be a nice view in the summer; flowers, the trees offering a bit of shade to the people sitting around enjoying the weather. Today, it looks bleak and cold, much like it is in this room.

I look at my watch, the kids should be back any time now. I sent them away an hour ago. They argued that I needed a break too, but I stubbornly held my ground. I couldn't leave George here in this room on his own. Not when his time was so near.

A few minutes later, I resume my post in the chair beside the bed. I take his hand, it's cold and dry. I cup it in my warmer ones, giving it a squeeze. I looked across the room at the window and began to talk, my mind a moving picture of our lives together. I no longer see the room, I am lost in the past as I remind George of our lives together.

“Do you remember how we met George? Oh my, you were a handsome figure in your uniform. So dashing. It was a wet and stormy night, remember? The silly old woman who sailed through that red light. She was so lucky you know. I could have killed her had I been distracted for even one second. I almost managed to avoid her. I only clipped her rear fender, though we both spun around like skaters in the Ice Capades.”

“All I remember is the horrible sound of metal collapsing, the world blurring and a sudden, jolting stop. I burst into tears. It was that young father in the station wagon who reached me first, making sure I was okay. Then there you were. Strong and efficient, taking charge of the situation. You were just out of training, still wet behind the ears or so your partner used to remind you. But you did your job admirably, getting the facts and clearing the scene.”

“That poor old lady. She hung her keys up that night, never drove again. You were so kind and understanding to her. I remember listening to you talking to her and feeling something stir inside my heart. Oh, how I wanted you to ask me out and eventually you did, but you took your sweet time”. I laugh. “Yes, if you were nothing else, you were your own man. You never let anyone rush you and you never got angry when I demanded answers before you were ready. You just did what you needed to do. Have I ever told you how I admired that quality?” I squeeze his hand again.

“I still say that if it hadn't been for that minor car accident, our paths might never have crossed and you'd have married some bleach blonde hussy who wouldn't have the wisdom to know she had the best.”

I chuckle at our standing joke. George was always drawing the ladies. Wherever we went women threw themselves at him, even in my presence. They came in all shapes and sizes and the only commonality was their boldness. George, bless him, was a good man, faithful, loyal and true. He never strayed, though he certainly was given opportunities. That reminds me .....

“Remember Gwendoline? Oh, George, she was something else wasn't she. She was perhaps the boldest of those I personally knew about. We lived in that tacky little one bedroom apartment on Cedar Street and she lived right across the hall. Our first home together and it was all we could afford as we saved our pennies to buy our first house.”

“She was a divorcee, with a body that even I admired. Tall, long legs, an hour glass figure, curves and I mean curves in all the right places. You always gave that short whistled 'wow' whenever we talked about her. She was the closest thing I ever knew to a cat in heat. She had a itch with your name on it.” I chuckled, shaking my head.

“Do you remember all her transparent excuses for getting you over to her place. 'Come and kill the spider, George!' 'I need you to fix the leaking faucet, George!' 'George, I have a broken drawer I need you to look at.' I can still see her standing in our doorway, with her bleached hair, teased and back combed until it was almost straw-like; her tight pants and cropped blouses accentuating her figure. She most certainly had broken drawers, didn't she? Oh my.”

“I guess, if I have to be honest with you, I was jealous of her in a way. She was so sultry; sexy in a sleazy sort of way and I was so plain. I did worry in those early days that you would leave me, if not for her, for someone like her. I guess I was insecure , not of you, but of myself. Thankfully I learned to let go and trust you and you never did me wrong. I am a very lucky woman.” Tears prick my eyes. I blink them back and take a deep breath.

“I can tell you that I was absolutely thrilled when we finally bought that house! Moving across town away from her leering eyes took the pressure off. I didn't have competition knocking on my door twice a week, begging for your time. I got pregnant and stopped working after that and soon we were a growing family.” I paused, lost in my own memory for a moment. “I wonder what ever happened to her?”

“For all your strength and vitality, my being pregnant turned you to jelly.” I smiled at the memory. “I loved that about you. You clucked like a mother hen, fussing over me like I was the first woman to be in that condition. But you came through when I needed you. You got me to the hospital and you held my hand until they handed you the baby. Oh, I remember your expression when you looked at Robbie that first time. It is seared in my memory. My heart just about burst that morning. The pride and love that flooded your face. I think that was when I really knew, that no matter what happened, nothing would ever come between us.”

“You looked the same way when Becky came into the world. Our lovely daughter stole your heart the moment you looked into her tiny face. And Peter too, the baby of our brood. You were as proud to hold him as you were all the others, you never made him feel like you'd been there, done that.”

“I loved you more with each child. I didn't think it would be possible to love someone as much as I loved you when we married, but after three kids, my love for you was unfathomable. I finally understood those love songs ... as deep as the ocean, as high as the mountains. You were then and you are now, my everything.”

George stirs. I blink and refocus on the room, turning my attention to him. His eyes are open; he's looking at me. He tries to smile, I see it in his eyes, but it takes too much effort. I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back; sort of ... he's weak. It's barely noticeable, though I feel it like a vice grip on my heart. I take a deep breath. I need to be strong for him.

“Remember when the kids were young? Remember when we went on vacation to Vancouver, our first family holiday. We had such a lovely time in Stanley Park, didn't we? That trip was the first of many and it was special because you showed us that we could have fun every single day. We took two weeks to make a two day trip. We camped along the way, the kids explored Fort Steele and other sites of interest. We picked a basket of peaches in Penticton. We stopped before we got car weary and hiked or played or had a picnic. It was perfect. Then two nights in a small hotel in Vancouver, walking on the beach collecting sea shells. The trip home was just as much fun, playing I spy and pointing out foreign license plates, counting the cows or horses we'd see along the highway. I think it was because of you George. You knew how to have fun.”

His eyes, masked though they are with the drugs he's been given to numb the pain, twinkle as I talk. I continue to go through the stories of our lives together, piece by piece. I don't bring up the tragedies, I don't want him going into the next world remembering the miscarriage I had after Peter or the death of his partner. I remind him of our good time, our children, our love. Our life together.

I never shift my gaze from his, although I feel like the children should be back already. I want to check my watch but talking to George as he keeps his eyes glued to my face is more important right now. I see his love, I cherish that as I laugh about the time Robby played the lead in the school play. He was ten, and so like his father.

“Remember when Robbie played Hansel in this school play?” His nod is barely discernible. “The two of you rehearsing his lines every day. You did all the other parts, changing your voice from Gretel's high pitched squeal to the witch's gravelly cackle. I stood outside Robbie's door and listened to the two of you carry on. You were a good coach and he knew his lines backwards and forwards. At breakfast you would throw out a line from the middle of the play and he knew what he was supposed to say.”

“The night of the play, I think you were more nervous than Robbie. That poor boy walked out onto that stage and forgot everything. Stage fright! You nearly came out of your seat, wanting to rush up there and rescue him. But Robbie did you proud that night. He just said what came into his head and when he got a laugh from the crowd, he just kept it up. The teacher wasn't impressed at first, but the show was well received by the audience. It was the first time Hansel and Gretel was performed as a comedy and Robbie will always be remembered as the most precocious Hansel ever. Our Robbie. It's hard to imagine that he's forty-eight now. Where did the time go? ”

“Our oldest is forty-eight, George. Imagine that. The time goes too quickly. He's a lawyer, a prosecutor. We should have guessed the path he would take, with his theatrical bend, his ability to think on his feet. He and his wife gave us two of our blessings – Julia and Trevor. Gosh, Julia is twenty herself and Trevor is eighteen. He graduates in June. It's going to be a special day.”

I sit for a moment in silence, lost in thoughts of Robbie and his family. Then I move on to Becky. “Oh George!” I sigh merrily. “Do you remember Becky's first date? I don't know who was more nervous. You or me. I was worried the date wouldn't go well and you were worried it would. She was fifteen years old and far too young to understand the complexities of dating or so we thought.”

“But she had a good head on her shoulders and she knew who she was, even back then. She was cool as a cucumber that night, sailing out of the house and back home again, self assured and confident. It made our hearts swell with pride. She never took any guff off the boys, maybe because she had Robbie and Peter to back her up. Maybe because she always knew what she wanted. She was blessed, but I give you a lot of credit for her self confidence. You helped her to see that she was precious and special and that she deserved only the best.”

“Because of your love for her, she didn't give herself away, she waited. She never dated anyone twice who didn't treat her with respect. We were so proud of her, weren't we. She's a teacher, and she married a wonderful man and she gave us those beautiful grand babies. Ellen, Darla and little George, who isn't so little anymore. More of the precious blessings, we've been given.”

“And Peter, our little entrepreneur. He was the only one interested in a paper route and how we wished he was less ambitious on those cold and snowy mornings. Do you remember all the times you climbed out of your warm bed to help that boy when the weather was bad? Too many times, but you never complained. Never once uttered a harsh word, because getting up gave you time with him on his own. Some Saturdays you'd go for breakfast together after the job was finished. You'd come home grinning about some shared secret or joke. I filled in when you were working, but honestly, I know he preferred it when it was you. You were his strength and his hero. He looked up to you. As we all did”

“Peter's wife and his three precious angels – Elizabeth, Karen and Steve, are further evidence of our love. We have three beautiful children and eight wonderful grand kids. All of them a tribute to you, my love. You and I, George, have lived a charmed life, haven't we?”

He nods and whispers .... “Charmed.” Tears fill my eyes. I stare into his face and for a split second I glimpse the man he was before this dreaded disease took hold. “Love you.” he says with more force than his previous whisper.

“To the moon and back.” I say .... it's our ritual, our game.

He closes his eyes. He breaths in, he breaths out and he is gone. I sit there for a long time, holding his hand, tears streaming silently down my face. How am I going to live without him?

A hand rests on my shoulder. It's Robby. The kids and grand kids are all standing behind me, they've been here all the time, quietly listening to the stories of our lives together. There isn't a dry eye among them.

“Goodbye George.” I whisper. “I'll see you on the other side.” I finally let go of his hand, sit back and let the tears flow and my kids crowd around to say goodbye.

The Man of Her Dreams

The Man of Her Dreams

by Leslie Johnson

Angela pushed back his shaggy hair, falling over his not quite handsome face. His blue eyes sparkled like moonlight on the ocean. Everything about him was so perfect. She wanted to hold him tight and never let him go.

“I want to know everything about you.” He whispered as he leaned down to capture her bottom lip. She pushed him back.

“What did you say?” She shivered. Those words, they were the words her husband used to say before... but that was a long time ago.

“I, umm... want to know everything about you?” His voice cracked. Light began to appear through the pores of his skin. In a flash he was gone; tiny pixels, color and light, falling to the ground and disappearing from sight. Her breathing evened out and she awoke from her dream, her heart heavy with bitter tears. When was this going to stop - this dream of the perfect man?

Angela didn’t trust men; well maybe she didn't trust herself. She was a poor judge of character. That proof was in the man she left behind. Her husband, Kevin. She disappeared from her former life to get away from him. She didn’t fake her own death, but with some planning, she skipped town and ran clear across the country to get away. She lived under the radar, in a pokey little studio apartment that had seen better days forty years ago.
For over a year she had come and gone to work and never gave a single person her consideration. They were background and scenery, nothing to her or to her life. But this man she dreamed about had found his way into her soul, filling her dreams and breaking her heart every morning when she woke to find he wasn’t there.

She didn’t know his name. He carried a brown leather attache case and wore expensive suits. He worked in the same office building she did but without a name or some other details beyond his looks, finding him was nearly impossible. There were twenty-nine floors in that building and although some companies retained more than one floor, there were still many one-room offices hiding in the mazes of hallways and kiosks. She longed for the days when elevator operators ran people up and down all day. They knew everything and everyone. They would be able to tell her his name and which floor he worked on.

“But alas,” she thought, “These are modern times.” Modern times, where it cost too much to have someone do something you were capable of doing yourself. Gone for the most part were the telephone operators, elevator jockeys, maids and gardeners. The importance was all on the bottom line. Make money - make more - make even more…It was the charge put forth to every man or woman in a suit and their rewards were… good boy and atta girl and sometimes a little extra in the pay envelope.

Angela arrived at the office. She stepped into the large marble foyer and saw him as he stepped into the elevator. She hurried across the room. The doors closed moments before she reached them. As usual, he did nothing to prevent that; he never pushed the “door open” button to allow her access. It was almost like he knew she wanted to meet him. She waited for the next car and rode up to the twentieth floor in silence, wondering again about the shaggy haired man who worked in this building.

At the end of that long day, the end of a long week, she took the bus home. As was her habit on the last day of the work week, she got off six blocks from home to sit for a while in the park. She looked forward to these days. Fridays in the park were quiet times; the moms and tots had gone home to supper and the lovers waited until dusk to begin gathering. There were a few ragged souls coming to unwind, but they respected each other's privacy. It was time to decompress.
Sitting on the bench, looking out at the deep, wide river, her pulse slowed. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. A minute later, intuition told her she was no longer alone. She looked over. A round, gray haired woman sat at the other end of the bench. They nodded at each other. As she looked away, she thought she saw the shaggy haired man out of the corner of her eye. She turned to look. The path was empty.
For a second, she worried that she was becoming obsessed. She was seeing him everywhere. In the past few weeks she was certain she'd seen him at the grocery store, at the dry cleaners and at the movies. She'd gone to a Saturday matinee. Sitting in the darkened theater she was sure it was him two rows behind and off to her left. But when she looked again, he was gone. It must have been her imagination.
Glancing at her watch, she saw it was time to go home. There was a cardboard box waiting for her; a frozen dinner. She hated to cook. That was one of the draws to her husband. Kevin loved to cook and he was good at it. He cooked with flourish. She stood and headed toward the apartment.
Walking by the tidy little houses that bordered the park, she began to dream again. These were quaint homes and she could imagine forging a life here. She saw it like an air freshener commercial; everything white and clean. There he was coming up the walk; she stood on the step holding hands with two perfect, cherub faced children. Their blue eyes sparkled like the sun on the ocean. It was a happy picture and wonderful place to live.

Home in her tiny apartment, Angela tossed her frozen dinner in the oven before flinging herself onto the bed. For a moment she stayed face down before she turned over to stare at the cracks in the ceiling. She wondered, not for the first time, if she should paint them green and tie them together with leaves and flowers. She knew these cracks, she'd watched one grow over a period of months. Today, they didn't look like they'd changed much.
Once in a while she worried that the ceiling would fall in and crush her. She'd complained to the building manager when he came to collect her rent. He'd come in and stared at the ceiling, grunting a few times before saying he'd do something. That was over a year ago. She guessed if the roof did fall, then it was meant to be. But mostly she hoped she would be long gone before it did.

Thirty minutes later the timer went. She pushed herself up and pulled the tray from the oven. She ate in front of the television set. With the sound off, she watched the characters move around the screen unable to discern their words. She liked putting her own words into their mouths, making up the story by their actions rather than the script they followed.

Supper finished, she switched off the set, tossed the tin foil plate into the trash and rinsed her knife and fork under the faucet. Right on time, she heard the knock on her door. “Not again.” She knew who it was. It would be Bertie Halvorson from next door wanting to have a cup of tea and a chat. She doesn’t mind the old woman, but there are days when Angela wished she would buy her own damn tea and leave her the hell alone. Pushing herself away from the counter, she invited her guest in.
Sitting at the table, Bertie rambled on about her life and Angela let her mind wander. She nodded appropriately, but her mind was reliving her dream, getting lost in those blue eyes that sparkled like the sun on the ocean.

When Bertie left, Angela moved to the windows and reflected on her own life. She made a decent living and could probably afford to live somewhere nicer. But she found this tiny woe begotten place when she left her husband and she felt it was perhaps the best place to be - for now. Out of sight, out of her element, somewhere he would never look for her.

She loved the view from the large transom windows. They provided a great view of the city as it spread out as far as her eye could see. She could watch the river gleaming like a silver thread in the dark as it wound its way leisurely through the park six blocks away. She shifted her view to the streets, watching the traffic - mere orbs and streaks of red and gold floating along in various directions.

She wondered what he was doing at this moment. What did he see when he looked out his windows? What was he thinking? Might he be thinking of her? Was he alone or with someone? A jealous pang stabbed her heart and she laughed at her own foolishness. She had no claims on this man. He was merely a figment of her dreams and desires. He didn’t even know she was alive.

Eventually, Angela climbed into bed, restless once more for her dreams; longing for them to  whisk her away to a sandy beach, the salty sea, where a long legged man with shaggy hair walked toward her.

~  ~  ~

Across the street, the shaggy haired man watched her as she stood at her window. He stood in the shadows, out of her view. He knew her name and where she worked and he even knew where she came from. He followed her home months ago. He got too close a few times but he was certain she didn't know he was near.
He rented an apartment across from hers and every night, he watched. He watched the old woman come in. He noticed the bored expression on Angela’s face as the old woman talked. He watched her rinse their cups and then stand at the window, looking out over the city. He could see the wistful expression of hopefulness and expectation on her face. He knew a lot about her.
Pulling the wig from his head, he raked his fingers over his closely shaved head. The scars from his plastic surgery had healed nicely. He didn't even recognize himself.
“I want to know everything about you.” He whispered as she turns from the window. “I want to know everything....”

At Eight-O-Two

At Eight-O-Two

By Leslie Johnson

She looked at the clock on the wall. Eight-o-two. She glanced again at the door, waiting for something or someone to appear. The room seemed to shrink in upon itself. She shivered and pulled the blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders a little tighter. Where was he?

Outside a fall wind had begun to blow, scattering leaves in its wake. Footsteps tapped along the sidewalk, slowly moving toward the house at the end of the road. When he reached the gate, he stopped and looked up at the quaint facade of the tiny little home. Gingerbread cornices and other mouldings gave character to the otherwise plain wartime house.

He stood watching the clouds move across the full moon. He was waiting for a signal, the one he needed to enter the yard. His long robe swirled around his feet but he gave no indication that the cold wind affected him. He just stood there, watching.

A rogue cloud moved across the moon, blocking out what little light there was. The street light blinked off and all was in darkness. His signal to move forward. The gate groaned as he pushed it open. The noise seemed to fill the air and it gave a sense of urgency to his mission. He quickened his pace. At the bottom of the four steps he paused. He looked left and right and then turned all the way around the see what lay behind him. Then in the blink of an eye, he climbed those stairs and stood at the heavy oak door.

Inside the tiny house, she sensed his presence before the doorbell rang. Still she jumped. She was expecting him, had been expecting him all day and yet her heart leapt out of her chest at the sounding of the chime. He was here.

She slipped the blanket off her shoulders and crept to the door. Every bone in her ancient body ached from sitting in one place all day, waiting. When she stood on her side of that heavy oak door, she could feel him. His presence felt cold and oddly captivating. Part of her wanted to fling the door open and part of her wanted to run right out the back door to put as much distance between them as she could. She reached for the doorknob, her hand trembling with anticipation.

He called her name. She pulled her hand back from the door, surprised. Her name sounded odd, like it had never been pronounced properly until now. She heard it again, a whisper on the wind. Abigail… Abigail... Her heart bounced inside her chest. His voice was smooth and sultry, she wanted to cry.

Tears stung her eyes as she tried once more to open the door. This time she touched the doorknob. The heavy iron knob was cold to her touch. Bitterly cold. She felt the chill bite into her hand and run up her arm. She shivered again. Her teeth began to chatter.

Twisting the knob took great effort and then she pulled the door open. There on the front step stood her visitor. It was too dark to see more than the shadow of his form. The world outside the house was dark. For the first time in a long time she cursed herself for not having replaced the burned out bulb in the porch light.

Stepping back, she invited him in with a sweeping gesture of her left hand. He moved into the room, bringing with him the cold night air and a few wayward leaves. She shivered again and hastily pushed the door closed, making sure the latch it properly before turning to her guest. He had moved further into the house, his back to her.

She stood facing him and slowly he turned around, pushing his cloak off his face. His black eyes were like pools of deep water, she could see herself in them as she drew closer. He smiled at her and held out his left arm, his long fingers engulfing her small right hand. Abigail, she heard him say though his lips didn’t move. She knew it was his heart speaking.  She sighed.

The pain and the chills she had been feeling for days, dissipated in his presence. She felt younger and healthier than she had in years. Looking back at the room, she saw her own form sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. Her head hanging awkwardly to one side.

Looking back at the creature, she smiled. He squeezed her hand reassuringly. Then together the old woman and Death walked out the closed front door and down the road to nowhere. The clock on the wall stopped ticking. It was eight-o-two.

All Roads Lead To Rome

All Roads Lead to Rome

by Leslie Johnson

All roads lead to Rome or so the saying goes. It comes from the time when the Romans were conquering the world. They were famous for their road building and many roads that exist in Europe today, began with the Romans.

        Emma, a single girl looking for romance and her very best - but married friend, Lorraine, were navigating one of these roads in the backcountry in England, when she met him. He was enthusiastic and sweet. Being a tourist in his country, she wondered about taking him home. All single girls dream of finding romance far afield - someone new and exciting. A romance that would lead to a magical holiday or one that might be more permanent. She couldn’t watch “PS I Love You” without wishing at least once that she was the Hilary Swank character - meeting a handsome Irishman who would not only put up with - but encourage her uniqueness. It was that movie that sparked this trip, the longing to find her other half.

        That morning, they were following the map when they arrived at the ruins of a once thriving inn. The rest stop at the bottom of a steep incline had fallen to ruin when the road became impassable and people began detouring. Even the modest stable was nothing but two walls leaning drunkenly on each other. That old Roman road under a canopy of trees was now more like a ladder. The large flat paving stones had heaved themselves out of the earth where they had once been forcefully placed.

        Tummies growled as the two girls scrambled up the awkward slope, trying to find footing on the flat stones twisting from the earth. It was past lunch time. They were looking for somewhere to sit and enjoy the sandwiches and fruit their landlady had packed before they set off at eight that morning. That’s when they first saw him hurrying down the road toward them. Emma glanced at Lorraine. She did not seem delighted. Lorraine had made herself the unofficial protector of Emma’s heart. She wanted to save her romantic friend from being hurt.

The two kept moving and as he got closer, Emma couldn’t help but smile. That seemed to encourage him to come closer. She started to wonder if he knew a good place to sit and enjoy lunch. Would he stay and share her lunch? Did she want to share? A thousand questions roared through her mind. How old was he? He didn’t look that old? But it’s hard to tell from a distance.

They drew closer and Emma threw caution to the wind. She wrapped her arms around his lean body and pulled him close. She could smell him; he smelled just as he should; earthy and clean. He began kissing her face and even while she protested and tried to pull back, he continued to smother her with kisses. Sensing his love and his zest for life she stopped trying to back away. Instead she cuddled him closer and surrendered to his awkward and zealous passion.

Lorraine came alongside; even she was unable to resist his charms. Then she cleared her throat and pointed down the road. There were three adorable children coming out from the same gate, racing down the road toward them. Then stepping through the gate to stand watch was a tall, thin woman, a child resting on her hip. This was wrong. This was all wrong. Emma felt her face flush with embarrassment as the kids stopped beside them.

One last little cuddle and she released him back to his family. The kids joyfully took hold as she moved away, Lorraine trailing behind. Holding her head up, Emma walked down the road and past the gate. The woman stood wearing a stern look on her face. She studied Emma as she passed and it took every effort for Emma not to stare back. She wondered why this woman had been so careless. If she loved him, why didn’t she keep him home? Put him on a leash or something?

Emma and Lorraine never spoke until a mile further, they found a large fallen tree where they could sit and look down into the valley and enjoy their lunch. When Emma had finished her sandwich, she finally broke the silence. “He was so cute and I wanted him for myself.” She sighed. “...until I saw those kids.”

Her friend smiled. “You would have broken those kid’s hearts and besides you’d never get him through customs; too much red tape.”

Emma had to agree. She thought of her life back in Canada, sure that even as gorgeous as he was; he wasn’t a good fit for her. It was best that she gave him back. But they admitted to each other that he was the cutest boy they had seen on their trip so far. His lovely brown eyes, his little pink tongue, his tiny black nose and his black and white fur - he was so adorable. But then all puppies are.