Can't Touch This (Can't Touch This #1)

Just sad.

I tried to give them names that made me smile when I called them, so they didn’t remember the rough life they’d had before coming to me. However, this dog was brave. Messed up and dangerous, but brave.

“Do you have any food?” Vesper asked, slowly making contact with the dog’s wet nose with her knuckles.

My stomach twisted in fear. Her hand could be mauled in two blinks. But she didn’t seem to worry. Her fingers unfurled, letting the Pusky Bull lick tentatively and accept a soft touch on his muzzle.

“Food, Ry?”

“Shit, sorry. Yes, I do. I’ll go get some.” Climbing to my feet slowly to avoid any spook induced attack, I reluctantly turned my back on the woman I desperately wanted and the dog I didn’t trust, and dashed to the fridge where I kept gourmet homemade dog tucker.

Mrs. Fitzherbet down the road made a mix of all natural grains and meats and bound it with proper stock gravy. None of that chemical-dripping dog roll for my pooches.

Once I’d ladled a generous portion out and added some organic, all-natural kibble into a stainless steel bowl (seriously, my cupboards were more stainless steel and ceramic for canines than crockery and crystal for humans), I headed back to find Vesper with her legs crossed and the Pusky Bull over her lap.

His large head draped over her knees and his front paws, still bleeding from whatever fight they’d enrolled him in last, spread over her ankles. Vesper looked up as she massaged his torn ear; the stethoscope from her bag pressed on his barrel chest, a distraught look on her face.

The dog wheezed and huffed, breathing shallow but calm. He tracked me with his eyes but didn’t try to move, even with the promise of good food.

I didn’t interrupt as I placed the dog dish in snarfing distance and waited for her to finish listening to his chest. When she finally pulled the earpieces free and told Scar what a good patient he was, she looked up and made eye contact with me.

And I just knew.

I fucking knew.

I hated this part.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, tipping the bowl so he could eat without having to lift his head far from Vesper’s lap. Instead of diving in with starvation, he took a delicate mouthful and chewed slowly as if savouring every taste.

Anyone who said dogs didn’t feel pain or happiness like we did were morons.

This dog knew what we did.

This was his last meal. Or, if not his last…definitely numbered.

His last chance at comfort before he could finally let go because he knew what we did.

Vesper’s eyes glossed, but she didn’t cry—a professional with high levels of empathy—but still a professional. “His heart is struggling. I can’t tell without an X-ray, but it sounds over enlarged and pressing on his lungs. There’s a lot of liquid on his chest and it’s slowly suffocating him.”

My own chest constricted at the thought of slowly dying from breathlessness. How had he run around so long while I tried to catch him? Where had his energy come from?

I raked my hand through my hair. “Am I to blame? Did I scare him too much? Make him exercise too—”

Vesper took my hand from where it rested on the dog bowl. “It’s not your fault, Ry. Adrenaline kicked in and kept him going. But he’s tired. His body has had enough and I don’t blame him.”

Scar continued to eat, his ears twitching while listening to our voices. “How long does he have?”

Vesper sighed. “Honestly? I’m not sure. If we kept him quiet for the next few days, pampered the hell out of him and gave him everything he missed out on, he might hold on for a week, possibly two to enjoy it. But he’d suffer. Or…” Her eyes flittered to her bag. “I could send him to sleep and grant him peace finally.”

I jerked. “No, not yet.”

She didn’t argue, merely nodded as if that was where her thoughts had gone too. Was it right to let the dog be breathless just because we didn’t want to be the ones to take his life? Or was it kind to give him a few cuddles and good dinners before he said goodbye?

I didn’t know and who were we to make that decision on his behalf?

While Scar took another mouthful, I risked patting his head. He didn’t grumble and I accepted the invitation to touch him. “What do you want, boy? Are you done and want to go, or are you happy to stick around for a bit?” I looked up. “What about surgery? Is there anything you can do to bring the heart back to normal size?”

Vesper shook her head. “Not without flying him to specialised clinics—even then, it’s touch and go.”