Free The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge by Jim Kraus

That is supposed to be a full serving for an adult dog. A full cup. And I gave you a rounded cup. The package said just one cup. And if you eat too much after being skinny, you could get sick. I read that somewhere…or saw it on a TV show.”
    Hubert seemed to be paying attention to the explanation, almost nodding in response.
    “Was it good? The kibbles. Being a store brand and all.”
    To answer, Hubert walked over to Stewart and pushed his head against his kneecap, in an almost intimate gesture.
    “Good dog.”
    Hubert watched carefully as Stewart made coffee. Stewart thought he might wait until later to eat, since someone had brought an accidentally torn “Valu-sized” bag of Tops brand potato chips into the break room and Stewart had it timed perfectly and managed to eat nearly a third of the chips during his second break. It had been enough to dull the hunger. And he liked chips.
    Stewart went to his favorite chair and sat down. Hubert walked with him and sat by his knees. Once Stewart seemed settled and situated, the dog stood on his back paws, his front paws on Stewart’s knees, jumped, and, in a quick untangling of legs, managed to sit in Stewart’s lap, facing him.
    Stewart was pretty sure that he never had a dog in his lap, not once, so far in his life. It was a surprise, but not an unpleasant one, actually.
    Hubert stared into Stewart’s eyes. The dog’s eyes were deep and apparently thoughtful, the centers the color of black coffee, a deep cup of strong, black coffee.
    “Hubert. What do you want?”
    Hubert remained still, staring, memorizing, confident, at peace.
    Then he stood on all four legs, a little wobbly because of the unevenness of Stewart’s thighs, adjusted his stance a little, and then lay down, his eyes never once leaving Stewart’s.
    “You’re really going to lie here?”
    Hubert responded with a rusty growl, coming from deep in his throat—not an angry growl, not at all, but a growl that tried to convey contentment, and perhaps happiness. Stewart was not yet versed in reading a dog’s emotions, but this emotion seemed easy to translate. Then Hubert laid his head down, his eyes still open. He wiggled once more, then closed his eyes and, in another moment, he was snoring softly, making his nibbling rabbit noise again.
    Stewart reached over and stroked the crown of his head. He thought he could see a slight smile on the dog’s face but wasn’t sure if dogs could smile while they were asleep or not.
    But it sure looks like he’s smiling.
      
    As Stewart stroked Hubert’s fur, his finger ridged and fell where a dog should not be ridged—on his back and on his head. Stewart peered closer. Between a part in the dog’s fur, two lines, puckered and jagged and uneven and twisted and discolored, on his head and shoulders, each running for many inches.
    They must be scars. Big scars.
    Hubert blinked his eyes open, just a little, and looked back at Stewart.
    Stewart felt that he should whisper. He knew that a whisper would be understood.
    “Are these scars, Hubert?”
    Hubert appeared to nod. At least Stewart would have sworn the dog appeared to nod.
    “Did some person do this to you, Hubert?”
    Hubert shut his eyes for a long moment, as if he were trying to prevent a bad memory from invading and destroying the pleasant moment of the dog’s “right now.”
    But he did let that memory come up on him, just a bit, and he nodded again, and kept his eyes closed and bowed his head as if he were trying to make himself small to avoid the blows that caused the deep and long and jagged and angry scars that snaked along his back and head.
    “Someone was mean to you, Hubert?”
    Hubert sat still, as if awaiting another blow.
    “It’s okay, Hubert. It’s okay. You’re safe, now.”
    Stewart leaned in close.
    “I will never do that, Hubert. I will never hit you. I will never let anyone hit you again.”
    And the dog hesitated a moment. Then his stiffness disappeared, and he snuggled in