Free The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge by Jim Kraus Page A

closer to Stewart, tight into his lap.
    “You and me have a lot in common, Hubert.”
    Hubert kept his eyes shut.
    “We have pain in our past. I don’t think I have any scars like you, Hubert, not real ones…I mean not ones that you can see or feel, but there are scars. Words hurt people more than they hurt dogs, I guess. And sometimes not saying a thing hurts just as much. Like people who leave without saying good-bye.”
    They did that, Hubert. They both just left. I remember watching them both storm out of the house, yelling and shouting and throwing things.
    “I didn’t see my mother for five years after that,” Stewart said in a whisper.
    He rested his hand on Hubert’s shoulder.
    “Maybe we all have pain in our pasts, Hubert. But maybe some of it is worse than others.”
    And with that, Stewart closed his eyes.
    Like two peas in a pod. Two peas in a pain pod.
    Just before Stewart nodded off for a short nap, he chided himself.
    It’s probably not healthy to make fun of it—the past, I mean.
    Then he stroked the fur on Hubert’s back.
    And maybe that’s why we have to stick together, me and Hubert. We are sort of like brothers.
    Then Stewart chided himself once again and shook his head.
    Doesn’t that sound just so pathetic? Good grief. Maybe my grams is right.

    Perhaps an hour later, Stewart blinked his eyes open, almost startled, but not quite.
    Was that a knock?
    Hubert had not moved. The snoring continued, softly, like an intermittent power saw three blocks away.
    The knock repeated. It was less of a knock and more of a gentle rolling of knuckles against the door—a fabric-soft knock, as it were, designed to alert almost no one.
    “Who is it?” Stewart said.
    The voice on the other side was as soft as the knocking.
    “Stewart, it’s me. Lisa. Can I come in?”
    What do I do? What do I do?
    In that instant, Stewart’s thoughts raced as he tried to plot out a half dozen different responses and different scenarios and different plot lines that might sound plausible.
    In the end, he decided that keeping secrets was simply too difficult. Or at least keeping this secret. And he could not come up with a logical made-up reason why this dog was sleeping on his lap.
    Nothing makes sense. And, after all, it is just a dog. It’s not like I’ve kidnapped anyone. Or held up a bank. The dog stole some bones. That’s not a federal crime.
    “Stewart?”
    “Oh, yeah. Come on in. The door’s unlocked.”
    It’s almost always unlocked.
    Lisa entered, smiling, beaming almost, then stopped suddenly as she saw what, or who, was on Stewart’s lap. Her mouth formed a perfect circle—a cute circle, Stewart observed. He put his finger to his lips and mouthed the words, “He’s sleeping. This is Hubert.” He pointed down at the snoozing dog.
    Lisa, now on tiptoe, made her way into the living room.
    Her smile had returned.
    She perched, as silently as she could, in the chair next to Stewart and leaned toward him and whispered: “When did Hubert show up? Has he been here all along?”
    “No,” Stewart whispered back. “Just yesterday afternoon.”
    “Such a sweet-looking dog. He has the face of an angel. He does.”
    “I guess.”
    “I know dogs, Stewart. And this dog is special. You can tell right away. He’s smiling in his sleep. See? Only special dogs do that. My granny told me that. She loved dogs.”
    Even though they tried to talk in whispers, Hubert lifted his head and blinked his eyes. He offered a soft growl, a friendly, welcoming growl, toward Lisa, but did not move other than raising his head.
    “Hubert, this is Lisa, my friend. She lives downstairs.”
    “Hubert, I am Stewart’s good friend. And I think I have complicated everyone’s life. At least everyone in this room.”
    Hubert raised his head and sniffed. It was clear that he had encountered the scent before. He unsnarled his legs and stood, a bit wobbly, then jumped off Stewart’s lap with a furry clump and took one step toward Lisa