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Christmas Tapestry Anthology: A Collection of Short Stories

By Ruth A. Douthitt, Neala Ames, Rebecca Bruner, Joanie Feree, K.L. Hintze, Dawn M. Kravagna, Peggy Halter Morris, Leola Ogle, Brenda Poulos, Erla Beth Roder, Ora Smith

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SUGAR COMES TO WRENVILLE
NEALA AMES

The winter wind blew swirls of sugar-like snow down the quiet streets of Wrenville. Drifts claimed their territory between houses, swooping and curling into faux waves of frozen white fluff.
The clean air tickled my nostrils with a freshness not found in any other season. Crunching the frozen flakes underfoot, I made my usual circuit around the neighborhood. Peewees called from their elevated perch in the bare maple trees lining the street. In the far distance a single dog barked. Otherwise, silence.
Then I saw him. Huddled as close as possible to the foundation of a nearby house was a wheat-colored ball. A dog lover from toddlerhood, I recognized the object. I had not seen this dog before. Filled with confidence, I diverted toward the fluffy ball.
The dog lifted his snowcapped head. Two round eyes like Milk Duds peered cautiously at me. I saw the shiver that ran through his stocky little body. I slowly approached, trying not to alarm him. But he was street-kid wary, and quickly scrambled to his feet.
I held out my mittened hand in a gesture of friendship. The dog tossed another prudent look over his shoulder. “Here, Sugar. Come here. I won’t hurt you,” I cooed.
But the stresses of his lonely life took hold of his confidence and, tucking his feathered tail, he scurried toward the back of the house. I increased my stride, almost running now. When I turned the corner of the house, I saw that he had doubled the distance between us. Running with his head high, occasionally turning to see if I was still there, he continued through the back yard of the next house and dashed toward the street. I had lost him.
What should I do? I knew that if I chased him, I could drive him to his death underneath a car’s wheels. I stood quietly in the center of my neighbor’s yard. Finally, I decided to go home and prepare a dish of food for the waif. I thought it possible that I could lure him to me. Then I could care for him until I found his owner. Though scraggly, he did not look abused. Probably he had gotten lost on a walk or climbed out of a backyard as my Daisy had done when I was a child.
The fragrance of Italian spices greeted me when I opened my kitchen door. In the front room stood our tree, already lighted to delight our three-year-old son. My husband glanced up from the pot of spaghetti he was boiling. “Have a good walk?” he asked absently.
“I found a dog,” I commented. I saw Trevor wince. Married almost six years, I knew what he was thinking. “I didn’t bring him home,” I continued.
“Good,” was my husband’s single word reply.
My eyes shifted from his rigid back to the corner where Dusty’s bowls had always been. The vacant space looked bereft. When Dusty went to the Rainbow Bridge during a thunder storm last summer, Trevor had announced the end of pets for the immediate future. He had never set a date, but it was clear he wasn’t ready for another dog.
I, however, longed for the non-judgmental affection a dog gave so freely. Our little son, Neil, often asked where Dusty had gone. I knew he, like me, needed the vacant space in his heart to be filled. Sighing heavily, I slipped my boots off and went to hang my coat in the hall closet.
“I’m not ready, Carrie,” Trevor’s voice followed me to the closet.
“I know you aren’t,” I admitted, reentering the kitchen. “You’ve made that very clear.”
Trevor said nothing more. I opened the pantry door. Behind the cans of green beans, corn and tomato sauce hid four cans of Dusty’s food. I reached for the nearest one. Holding it against my body, I walked down the stairs to the basement where Dusty’s bowls were stored, cleaned and stacked beside his well-used bed. I spooned a generous portion of the beef cuts into the food bowl and soundlessly climbed the stairs to the garage. Outside, as near the street as I thought safe, I hid the bowl of food between two of the spirea shrubs that lined our driveway. Then I scurried back into the garage.
After supper I slipped away to check the food in Dusty’s bowl. It was gone. Though I had not seen the animal that ate it, I made myself believe it was the wheaten dog. I prayed for the dog’s safety. The prayer comforted me through the dark winter night.
For three days I refilled the bowl morning and evening. On the third evening I caught Trevor watching me through the living room windows. I couldn’t tell from his expression what he was thinking. When I walked into the room, he was gone. I heard the television in the family room. Not ready to confront my husband, I sat on the comfortable sofa in the living room and gazed at the beautiful lights on our Christmas tree. Gentle peace settled over my heart.
Outside the temperature was dropping. I knew it would be dangerously cold for the little stray. The weatherman on our local station had warned pet owners to bring their outside pets indoors for the night. The memory of the blonde dog wouldn’t leave my mind. Finally, I came to a decision, rose from the couch, bundled myself into my winter clothes and called to my husband. “Trevor, I’m going for a walk.”
“Isn’t it too cold?” he asked.
I bit back my first words. ‘If it’s too cold for me it’s too cold for the stray!’ As calmly as I could, I answered. “I’m bundled up. I like it cold; you know that.”
“Okay. See you,” Trevor replied absently.
I paused a few moments in the kitchen. Then, on my way out of the driveway, I noticed that the food in the bowl was gone. The towel I had placed underneath the bowl, heavy with my own scent, was rumpled. Maybe the stray had done what I hoped and investigated the towel. I sent a quick prayer heavenward. “Oh God, Heavenly Father, please lead me to this little stray dog. I believe that You showed him to me for a reason. Please God, let me find him so I can shelter him, feed him, and love him just for tonight.”
The clear, cold air allowed the stars to shine forth in all their glory. In my neighbor’s yard, dark against the pale grey of the nighttime snow, a mound was clearly visible. Could that be the dog?
“Sugar?” I called softly, my breath ghostly white in the frigid air. “Here, boy. Come here.”
I reached into my coat pocket and drew out one of the pieces of hotdog I had cut moments before. In the silvery light I saw the mound get to its feet. It was the stray. Slowly I crouched down. Slowly I extended my hand. Pausing every few seconds to check my scent, the dog inched forward. When he was about three feet away, he stopped. His body language told me he couldn’t trust me any further. So, I gently tossed the piece of hotdog toward his front feet. He leaped back. Seconds later, to my great joy, he returned to his forward position and gobbled the meat. I tossed another piece. He inched forward eagerly.
With each passing minute I saw his trust growing. At last, when I was almost out of meat, he shuffled forward, stretched his black button nose toward me and took the final hotdog piece from my hand.
Cautiously, I reached out with my empty hand. He let me touch his face, searching for a collar. There was none. Gently I stroked his chest. Seconds later he allowed me to touch his back. But would he follow me?
He backed away when I stood. My heart in my throat, I took one step back. He didn’t move. I took another step back. He took one step forward. I caught my breath, slowly released it and crooned to him, “Sugar, sweetie, come home with me. I can only promise you this one night. But this night is all that matters right now, isn’t it?”
I continued to back away from him. By the time I’d gone ten feet, he was following me. Taking small steps, I soon arrived at the end of my driveway. The dog was still with me. He paused a few seconds beside the empty food dish, gave the towel another long sniff, then walked to my side and sat at my feet, gazing up at me trustingly. “Thank you, Father,” I breathed into the frozen night.
I got Sugar smuggled into the basement, took Dusty’s bed from the shelf and placed it beside him. He investigated it, stepped hesitatingly inside it, then curled up and laid down. He lifted his head and gazed long into my eyes. There I read the gratitude that filled his little heart. Then he opened his mouth and laughed at me. I giggled in return.
Not wanting to press the issue, I resisted the urge to pet him, turned on my heel and climbed the garage stairs.
When I joined Trevor in the family room, he greeted me with one sentence. “Did you find him?”
I blushed but answered my husband truthfully. “Yes. He’s in the basement cuddled in Dusty’s bed. I’ll place an ad in the paper tomorrow. Online too.”
“Un-huh. What do you intend to do with him tomorrow?” Trevor’s eyes searched my face.
“I don’t know. Trevor, it’s so cold outside, I just couldn’t leave him!” I explained.
“I know. But, Carrie, why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?”
I hung my head. “You’ve made it very plain that you aren’t ready to let another dog into your heart. I understand, really, I do. Dusty was your dog. You loved him. So did I. So did Neil. But, Honey, we’d like to love another dog now!”
“This stray? This little mongrel? You want him?” Trevor exclaimed, frowning.
Until that moment I had not admitted the truth to myself. Yes, I wanted this dog. My heart went out to him. I admired his spirit. I loved his sturdy blonde body, his black button nose, his round brown eyes, his furry drooping ears. I loved the way he laughed when he knew he was safe and wanted.
“Come and meet him,” I encouraged Trevor, holding out my hand.
Together we walked to the basement and flicked on the light. Sugar raised his head, his bright brown eyes asking the most important question. I knelt beside him. He did not run or flinch. I stroked his blonde fur, running my fingers gently through the matted hair.
“Pet him,” I urged Trevor.
Neither of us had heard the footsteps on the wooden stairs. Suddenly Neil threw himself on top of Sugar, laughing. “A dog! Mama, did Jesus bring us this dog for Christmas?”
I had forgotten that this night was Christmas Eve. I lifted my eyes to my husband. In his eyes I saw verification of Neil’s words.
“Yes, Neil,” Trevor said quietly. “God sent your mother out into the cold to bring us this special gift for Christmas. If it is God’s will, he will be our dog.”
With those few loving words, the deal was sealed. Neil sat in Dusty’s bed hugging the dog. The dog’s eyes beamed and his face split into a wide grin of pure joy. I couldn’t stop my own happy laugh.
To my great relief, no one answered my ads. The little dog belonged in no family but ours. That Christmas lived in our memories as the year God sent Sugar to Wrenville.

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