Dog Lived (and So Will I) Read Online Free

the mandatory three-day holding period and I had to go back to work, which should have given me enough time to consider whether this dog was a good idea for me. It should have.
    “I can pick him up on Saturday, right?” I said to Destiny.
    “Saturday morning.”
    “That will give me time to get some food and a crate for him.” I petted the dog’s domed head. “I’ll be back, buddy. I’ll come get you tomorrow.”
    “I knew he’d be perfect for you.” Destiny leashed him and led him back into the kennel.
    The baying started instantly: Aaaaaarrrooooooooo!! Aaaaaa-rrrooooooooo!!! Aaaaaarrrooooooooo!!! This is not happening! Take me with you now! Now, I say! Noooooooow!!!
    I could still hear the howling as I drove away, already missing him and feeling guilty for leaving him. I didn’t stop for even a moment to consider that howl coming from my townhome. Women in love can overlook many bad traits.
    Each of the beagles I’d shared my life with in the past had their own color schemes. The beagle I’d adopted after law school was Raz (short for Razumov, thank you, Joseph Conrad), and she had yellow collars and leashes her whole life. Blue for Rabu (short for Rabushov—an unintentional transmutation of the otherwise literary name Rubashov, with apologies to Arthur Koestler, but really, what kind of a nickname would “Rub” have been?); red, naturally, for Richelieu (as in Cardinal) and pink for my Roxy-girl (right, I didn’t name her; I adopted her when she was already eight years old). On Saturday morning, I bought the new beagle a dark green leash and collar, along with a crate and its comfy cushion with soft cotton on one side and dark-green water-slick covering on the other.
    On the way to the pet adoption center, I thought about a name for this new beagle. I was thinking I’d move away from the “R” names. I’d picked the green color because this beagle was so red and I was just back from Ireland so naturally I associated red hair with “Irish.” Maybe I’d give him an Irish name to go with his green theme. An Irish name might fit. I thought of the cousin who’d made me laugh so much on my trip. Seamus might be a good name for the dog. Maybe it would even bring us some Irish luck. But a name has to fit a dog. We’ll see, I thought, as I parked in front of the adoption center. We’ll see.
    Destiny brought the noisy, jumping, ecstatically happy beagle to the “greeting room” so I could get to know him. That didn’t take long. He stopped howling as soon as I petted him and turned his attention to sniffing out my purse and me, in that order. He must have found something he liked, because he jumped up next to me on the bench and planted himself against me, leaning in and looking up at me. He was mine and I was his. The decision wasn’t even mine.
    I put the new green collar on him, and he howled and jumped and cracked me up about a hundred different ways on our drive home, including barking every time the car came to a stop— Don’t forget me! I’m back here! Right here! Don’t leave me back here! I’m here!!! Right then, I knew. My red, whiskey-howling, funny little beagle was so obviously a Seamus. (When a dog wants to fookin’ find a woman, he’ll fookin’ find ’er.)
    When we arrived home, beagle Seamus followed me into the house and raced around, checking out every inch of the townhome and lingering anywhere there was a faded scent of Richelieu and Roxy. He wore himself out sniffing, howling, and jumping on and off my lap. Finally, he joined me on the couch, snuggling up against me as I petted his head and rubbed his belly. He relaxed. I began to notice how soft his coat was. And especially his long ears. That’s when I noticed the inside of his right ear had a two-inch surgically straight scar running down its length. I ran my finger along the scar. Wherever he started out in life, they had cared enough to microchip him, neuter him, and stitch up whatever had happened to his