That would be Honey the puppy.
Earlier in the week, Max accompanied me to the local animal rehoming center to run through a last-minute check of the dogs being brought in today. Thanks to the public service announcement running from the tannoy, he’s been parroting commentary all week about the importance of giving dogs a good home.
He visited all of them, but one in particular caught his eye—Honey, a three-month-old golden retriever/dachshund mix who’d been abandoned.
She was so tiny, clearly the runt, and Max carried her under his arm and almost out into the car for the journey home before I noticed. It’s not the first time Max has tried to sneak a small creature home with him, and I doubt it’ll be the last. Normally, it’s a farmyard animal, like the pygmy goats we rescued at Christmas, and were definitely not allowed in the house.
Each time it happens, it’s met with a discussion about where their real beds are.
Honey doesn’t come with that restriction. Max already knows she’s allowed in the house with the other dogs, an argument he’s put forth many times.
Normally, it doesn’t take long for him to get distracted with a new subject, but it’s been a week, and he’s still talking about her. So yesterday I called the center and said I’d take her in return for a sizeable donation.
By the end of the day, we’ll be a four-dog household.
Reaching out, I ruffle his hair. “No one will have taken her,” I reassure him.
He smiles, his eyes open wide, and I assume it’s because he’s happy with my answer, but it’s Claudia arriving with hot chocolate and the cinnamon buns. Pink whipped cream tops Max’s hot chocolate, and the buns have been sprinkled with glitter and pink hearts.
He gets the exact same expression he had in the queue earlier.
“Thanks, Claudia.” I smile up at her.
“You’re welcome, and Happy Valentine’s Day, Maxy.”
His brows drop low as he looks suspiciously at his hot chocolate. “It’s very pink.”
“Yeah, that’s love for you,” she replies, droll as ever. “Tastes the same, though.”
He stares at me over the top of the whirl of cream, silently demanding that I offer an opinion too.
“Happy Valentine’s,” I call after her as she walks away while Max picks the pink hearts off his cinnamon bun. “I’m sure they taste okay.”
He shrugs. “I just want to taste cinnamon.”
“Fair enough, bud . . . but as it’s Valentine’s Day, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Okay.”
Out of the window, the queues are already forming for Agatha’s. Teenagers, couples, and adults who should know better are all waiting patiently for her store to open and to get their hands on a new love potion or spell to take home.
“Do you remember when youasked me about having a valentine?”
He shakes off a heart stuck to his finger and takes an enormous bite of the bun. After wiping the sugar from around his lips, he mumbles, “It’s a secret?”
I nod. “Right. And now you’ve been at school learning about Valentine’s Day.”
“I made my card for you.”
He’s so proud of himself, I can’t help but grin back, forgetting that I received it at a little after five o’clock this morning when Max burst into my room. “I know you did, bud. I love it. Thank you.”
“That makes you my valentine.” He smiles, though he’s more focused on licking the cinnamon sugar off his fingers. “I wanted to put more glitter, but Felicity used it all.” His eyes roll.
“I think it’s perfect. And what did your friends make?”
He shrugs. “I dunno.”
Removing the blob of pink cream from both our cups, I sip at my hot chocolate. “If I wanted to give a valentine to someone, what would you think about that?”
