A Puppy And A Christmas Proposal. Louisa George

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      He tried to push the memories away but there was something about those Nativity scenes that seemed to lock them in his head; the doctor’s office decorated in tinsel for festive fun, diametrically opposed to the hot panic that had consumed him. The phone call. Tears. So many tears. And then navigating an entirely different landscape from the future he’d been planning.

      From somewhere he heard a little whine, then an excited yelp tugged him back to today, the past receding a little. Behind him was a fluffy bundle of fur on four legs. Not a red-nosed reindeer but a dog...a puppy to be exact. It stopped walking when he did. When he started again it let out another yelp then bounded through the drifts and caught him up, tangling between his legs.

      Huffing out a breath, Alex disentangled himself from the pup. Along with huge soppy eyes it had a long snout, big paws completely out of whack with its body and a tail that stood up like a spike. Cute. If you were the dog-loving type. Alex wasn’t. Especially when they hindered your journey home after a long day looking after particularly difficult patients. He stepped over the mutt. ‘Whoa, puppy. It’s too slippery out here to be doing that.’

      It didn’t move. ‘Go.’

      Nah. Nothing. He picked it up, turned it around and plopped it back onto the snow, hoping it would return to wherever it had come from, then he set off in the direction of home. Warm fire. Cold beer. Warm fire. Cold beer.

      Another yelp. A little bark. Did that one sound like, Hey, Mr Bah Humbug, I’m freezing?

      ‘Look, stop following me. Go home, boy...or girl...’ He couldn’t tell from this distance. But the puppy just tipped its head to one side and looked at him. ‘Go. Shoo.’

      Pointy ears pricked. Well, one did; the right ear had a floppy fold. One up, one bent.

      Not cute at all. Really. Not cute.

      And lost. He looked at the trail of puppy paw prints in the snow and sighed as he bent down. ‘Okay, okay. Let’s have a look at you.’

      No collar. Great. A boy pup. And very happy to be given attention. ‘Someone, somewhere is going to be missing you. How about you turn right around and go back where you came from?’ But he couldn’t help sinking his fingers in the fur at the back of the pup’s neck and giving him a good scratch. The puppy nuzzled against his arm and something in Alex’s chest squeezed.

      No. ‘I am not going to be bamboozled by big soppy brown eyes and cold paws.’

      No. Nope. No way. Niet.

      As soon as this silly season was over he was booking a holiday. A climbing holiday perhaps where he could put all his energy into something physical. A holiday fling maybe? That could be good respite too. A something with someone who didn’t want for ever. He noticed his fingers were still fur-deep and his palm was wet with over-enthusiastic licks. It actually felt kind of nice. When was the last time he’d made a meaningful connection?

      He didn’t want to think about that, because making connections deeper than the ten-minute appointments with his patients was something he avoided at all costs. Dragging his hand away from the fur ball, he tried to sound authoritarian. ‘Don’t go getting attached to me. Off you go.’

      He started to walk away. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Words he’d repeated over and over to himself so many times in his life; in the darkest times, when he’d faced an uncertain future, he’d known that looking back at all those unfulfilled plans he’d made would have given him no solace at all.

      But the puppy ran along next to him, sinking deep into the snow, then pushing with those huge paws and jumping out and into the next drift. ‘A puppy with authority issues. I see. Just my luck, right? Look, mate, this isn’t going to work. I’m just not that into you.’

      The wind picked up as he reached his cottage, swirling snowflakes faster and thicker. He slid the key into the lock and pushed through into the cold and dark, pausing for a moment to stamp the snow from his boots. Wishing he’d left either a light or central heating on, he flicked on a switch, flooding the hallway in a soft cream glow, and caught a spiky tail disappearing into his kitchen. ‘What? Hey! Houdini! You don’t live here.’

      The damned thing had snuck in with him and was now, he discovered as he rounded the corner into his large kitchen-dining room, lying on his grandparents’ heirloom rug in front of the dining table, chewing on Alex’s best, top-of-the-range and shipped-all-the-way-from-the-States climbing shoes.

      ‘Hey! Hey! No! They cost a fortune! Let go.’ A throaty, playful growl came from the dog as Alex took hold of his shoe and tried to tug it out of its mouth. ‘I only just bought them. I’ve only worn them once.’

      But the dog stuck his bottom in the air and laid his enormous paws out in front and kept on tugging back, that tail wagging back and forth like a metronome on heat.

      ‘This is not a game.’ Alex needed to distract it. ‘Food? What could you have? Water? Yes. Water.’

      He filled an old porcelain Willow Pattern bowl that had belonged to his grandmother and put it on the floor, then microwaved the sausages he’d planned to eat for dinner and chopped them up. ‘Your last supper, matey. Then you’re back out there.’

      He looked out of the window at the whirls of snowflakes, heavier and thicker than he’d seen in a long time. Then he looked at the puppy, who was devouring the food as if it hadn’t eaten in days. Maybe it hadn’t. ‘Who do you belong to?’

      One tentative sniff of the sausages and Spike gobbled the lot—okay, so the name just came to him. It fitted the mutt perfectly, especially with the tail that stuck straight up. And so much for not getting involved. As a rural GP he’d been around enough farmers to know you didn’t name things you didn’t want to get attached to.

      Then Spike bounded over to him, dragging the now mauled and mangled shoe. Alex used his best authoritative voice. ‘Drop. Drop.’

      But Spike went right on chewing at Alex’s feet. Whoever owned him scored very low in the puppy-training ranks.

      ‘You must belong to someone. Surely? How would I find out? A dog like you shouldn’t be out there in the freezing night—oh? Ugh.’ His words stalled as a warm and wet sensation trickled down his ankle.

      ‘Oh, great. Just great. A puppy with authority issues and a weak bladder. Brilliant.’ He looked down and his eyes met those dark brown soulful ones. He ignored the squeeze in his chest. ‘Spike, my man. Just what the hell am I supposed to do with you?’

      Sometimes folks loved their pets more than people, and Beth Masters understood that more than most. Pets didn’t break promises or let you down. Pets never gave you the cold shoulder or silent treatment. Except for the one she was examining now; the poor farm dog was so ill, and exhausted from being sick, she could barely move. ‘How long has she been like this?’ Beth asked Meg’s owner, local farmer Dennis Blakely.

      The old man just shrugged as he stared down at his lovely old collie and stroked her muzzle. ‘Help her, Beth.’

      Beth recapped what he’d told her when he’d rushed through the door a few minutes before, frantic for help. ‘So, we have a history of vomiting and shaking...like a seizure?’

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