steps in.
He did this a couple of other times before he came to the part of the kitchen that separated it from the living room.
As we spoke about him, I kept my eyes peripherally on the dog, wondering why I cared so much. Why I wanted the dog to come to me.
But I couldn’t explain my reasoning, I just felt like it was important.
“…when we got him, we got him healed up. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s a different story. He’s a good dog. The best, actually. He’s just very standoffish. When we started raising him as a PTSD service dog…” My head whipped around to Ares. Ares who was studiously doing her best to ignore me. “…we thought it would be a good fit for him and that ‘correct’ person. We were going to let him pick… and obviously he has.”
My anxiety had ratcheted up so many notches that it took me a while to realize that Trigger was now at my side.
Not looking at me. Hell, not even touching me.
But there. He was sitting at my side, about six inches away from my leg, and staring at the door as if he expected something bad to come through it at any second.
“He’s very good at assisting awake. He wakes Asa when he has nightmares,” Delanie continued. “When we go out, he stands in front of Asa and walks circles around him, creating a sort of buffer between people and him. Which is what you look for in a PTSD service dog. Because some men and women that suffer from PTSD actually have anxiety when it comes to being in crowded spaces.”
A-fucking-men.
“Then there was one time that Asa was having a tantrum at the supermarket. I mean, knockdown, drag-out tantrum right in the middle of an aisle. Trigger literally took a hold of his shirt and led him straight out of the supermarket. Allowed him to have his tantrum outside.” She shook her head. “Which is kind of what we’re looking for in trained PTSD service dogs. Ones that will lead and help an individual that’s having trouble.” She paused, her eyes coming to me. “We’ve worked with him on other individuals as well. He responds better to males than he does females.”
I could feel my heart skyrocketing at the thought of this woman I barely knew knowing all the shit that was wrong with me, and the dog, sensing my anxiety, touched his cold, wet nose to my palm.
That was it. Just one single touch.
But it was enough.
That’s when I realized that this dog wasn’t for Ares. Hell, this entire trip wasn’t for Ares. It was for me.
I’d left her high and dry. I’d fucked her and then hadn’t talked to her in days. Then, I’d just dropped back into her life and insinuated myself in it as if I hadn’t spent all that time hiding.
And no matter how pissed she was, she’d still spent some time looking into this—my problem—and helped find a solution.
And, right then and there, I knew that Ares Downy was it for me and that I loved her. With my whole heart and soul.
It was fast and intense, and I knew that I would never be the same ever again.
Ares was just it for me. There would be no other person after her. She was my once in a lifetime kind of love. The one where the old man only lives because of his wife, and the moment she passes, he’s just there, existing but no longer living.
The man who changes his whole entire world as long as his girl is happy.
And I knew right then and there that I’d tear it apart as long as it made her smile.
***
I knew that she was slightly freaking out as we got to her house later that night.
Trigger was riding in the back seat, his eye out the open window, but not hanging out like a normal dog would.
It was weird, and a little bit uplifting because I would think that a dog that had to deal with my shit had to be a bit more serious about life than a normal puppy.
And, just to break the silence, I looked over at Ares as I pulled into the duplex subdivision I lived in, I spoke the first question on my mind.
“Do you think that I have to have