Page 14 of Sweet Devotion

“Go on,” Alice urged Sarah Sue to continue.

Sarah Sue heaved a sigh. “They were at Lackland on a temporary assignment—routine recertification—the handler collapsed. The dog—Romeo—alerted, got help. Did everything he should have to save his human, but he died during transport to the hospital. Romeo never saw him again.”

“Let me guess,” Aiden spoke, “Romeo is still waiting for his handler to return.”

“Ten points to the soldier.” Sarah Sue paused. “Romeo is barely eating or drinking enough to stay alive, sleeps most of the day and at night he paces the kennel constantly nosing the doorway.”

“Poor baby doesn’t understand what happened.” Alice’s normal sunny expression crumbled.

“Dogs understand death,” Aiden explained, “the problem is that in order to process it, they need to smell death. The dog will still grieve the loss, but in this case it’s doubly strong, the pain of losing the handler and the confusion of why.”

“Sounds like you know a lot about dogs?” Sarah Sue’s voice was low and reverent.

Aiden shrugged. “I remember when my grandfather passed. I was still in high school. The whole family had gathered and sat vigil with Granny. They had a beagle, Glory. I was talking to my mom in the corner of Grandad’s room when he heaved a deep sigh. Granny had been sitting at his side, holding his hand. She looked up at the same time Glory jumped up onto the bed from where she’d been sleeping on the floor, sniffed my grandfather from toe to head and then back again before letting out a small whine and laying down with his head on my grandfather’s free hand. That’s how we knew it had been his last breath. Glory was sad, but she didn’t sit by the door waiting for him. She understood.”

“So.” Alice straightened in her seat. “Now it’s our turn.” It clearly wasn’t a question. “Let me know when you’re free to pick him up and we’ll go.”

An air of sadness descended on the room. Slowly, everyone picked up their dishes and made their way to the kitchen. A parade of family carrying dishes, leftovers, and a moment of heartache for a man and dog they’d never known.

“Why don’t you get some fresh air on the porch?” Already loading the dishwasher, Alice Sweet gestured toward the back door. “There’s a clear sky tonight and the weather is finally comfortable to stay outdoors.”

“Both of you.” Jillian gestured at the two guests. “As soon as we’ve cleaned up, we’ll join you.”

“I’ll put on a pot of coffee.” Rachel didn’t wait for comment, she merely turned on her heel and headed straight for where the coffee pot sat on the counter.

“I can hel—” With a mere look, one that reminded Colleen of her own mother reprimanding her brood, Alice cut Aiden off mid sentence and waited until he followed up with a simple, “Yes, ma’am.”

Then the matriarch’s gaze shifted to Colleen.

“Good idea. I’ll follow you,” she directed at Aiden, watching him closely as he made his way outside and leaned against the railing.

“You should sit.”

“I should stand.”

“It’s been a long day with a lot of moving around you’re not used to.”

“Which is why I’d rather stand. I stiffen up when I sit too long.” His gaze remained on some point in the distance.

“Fair enough.” She didn’t like it, but she understood.

“Can I ask you something?” He shifted just enough to lean back on the railing and face her.

“Sure.” She pushed off on her foot and set the porch swing to lightly swaying.

“The equine therapy. Everybody seems very sure about it. That it’s the next step on the road to recovery, but I don’t see what a horse does that months of parallel bars didn’t.”

Stopping the swing, she leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped and dangling in front of her. “When you walk, your pelvis moves in three directions at the same time. Forward and back, side to side, and rotating. Your body does it automatically, without you thinking about it.”

His head tipped slightly and he came close to squinting before nodding at her.

“A horse at a walk produces those same three motions in the rider. Every stride. Whether you’re trying to engage or not. The parallel bars give you something to hold. The moment you hold on, the deep stabilizers—the muscles that should be doing the work—they check out. They don’t have to show up.”

His gaze was intent, so much so she could almost see him processing every word she said. If he used this focus and care during therapy, things were going to go well for him. And she liked that. More than she expected.

“On Boots,” she continued, “there’s nothing to hold. Your body has to find its own balance with every step she takes. Muscles that went quiet after the injury get asked back to work whether they’re ready or not.”

“And they come back.”