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Pepper was already around twenty-six, a senior citizen, when we rescued her from the kill pen years ago, her spirit broken by years of neglect. She was so shut down it took months for her to trust us. But the true transformation happened when Hazel came to live with us.
Hazel’s mother died giving birth to her. We weren’t sure she would survive at first, but she did, and as soon as she was strong enough to be turned out with another mini donkey, we placed them together. Hazel got the mother figure she desperately needed and Pepper turned into a loving, doting, adoptive parent.
Tom takes the longish dark blonde hair falling over his hazel eye and tucks it behind his ear, exposing his sharp jawline. If I was a normal person, I would find this hot. “Blue…” His words stall. Like he’s searching for the right combination that will hurt the least. “She’s old. Almost thirty.”
“So what can we do?”
“Be kind. Don’t prolong her life because you’re not ready to say goodbye. I can give her an IV, but she’ll continue to deteriorate, and I’ll be back here tomorrow, telling you the same thing again.” He places his big warm hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Make her comfortable and let her go.”
I pace the barn for a few more hours and make the decision with Mona’s help. Tom comes back at sundown and finds me in the stall with Pepper’s head on my lap. She’s hurting and the decision to let her go is the right one.
Pepper travels over the rainbow bridge with her head on my lap, peacefully and loved beyond measure. You can hear a pin drop in the barn. The animals know. They always know.
I text Mona when it’s done. She’s not good with them passing, so we’ve worked it out that I stay with them. I don’t fault her. Some of us love so hard it bleeds out of the seams and leaves us weak and defenseless, unable to cope.
Maybe that’s why I was a good paramedic. When tragedy strikes, a steady calmness comes over me. Sometimes it helps to save a life. Sometimes it’s to assist life in completing its cycle. I don’t know where it comes from, but it’s always been with me. Up until the assault.
While the other animals are quiet, Hazel is not. I had to put her in a separate stall down the aisle. She’s hysterical in fact, braying loudly. It’s a bloodcurdling sound if you’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing it. Once I’ve buried Pepper in the grave I asked Aidan to dig with the backhoe earlier, I run back to Hazel to try to calm her down, but it’s almost impossible.
Shane walks in and finds me in the stall, seated with my back against the wall. The look on his face is pure compassion. No pity. The line between those two is thin but important. I can see why he would make a good leader of men.
He’s a dream and a nightmare. I’m just not sure which is worse for me. Tears threaten to surface for the first time all day. Seeing all that resolute strength in such a great package stirs them up.
“How is she?” he asks, tipping his chin at Hazel who’s now quiet and standing but exhausted.
“She refuses to lay down and rest. The only thing that helped stop the braying is Frank Sinatra.”
“Frank?”
I hold up my iPhone and hit play. One For My Baby comes on softly.
He holds up a paper bag. “I brought you a sandwich and a bottle of water… Mona insisted you eat.”
Without invitation, he enters the stall and sits across from me, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His calves are tanned, cut muscle lightly covered with dark hair. Up close, I can see a few more shrapnel scars faded by time. I wonder about them. What their story is. Does he still carry it around or has he set it aside the way Pepper set aside years of abuse and chose to spend the rest of her life being happy?
When I don’t move to take the bag, he plucks the bottle of water out, loosens the top, and hands it to me. “Drink.”
“Anybody ever accuse you of being bossy?” I say quietly. Even though Hazel isn’t sleeping, I don’t want the energy to incite another braying spell.
“Lt. Colonel…” His half smile wakes me up. “I was paid to be bossy.”
“You must’ve been very good at your job.” Learning that he’s a successful writer is still hard to accept. It almost doesn’t fit my idea of him. He’s so low key that it feels incongruous with his level of fame. “Thank you,” I say. Taking a sip of water makes me realize how thirsty I was.
