A Good Dog by Marylinn S. Grimm

Forty lives saved.

Five broken bones. Daily threats and hazards, collapses, debris, explosions – and one fire that ended it all.

Jeremiah had been an incredible Rottweiler. That was why Andrew hesitated for so long when the time came to get another dog after her passing. He knew that replacing a good dog was a near-impossible feat, so he was in no hurry to choose. Whether from purebred kennels or shelters, the result was always the same: the vast majority were either too spoiled or lacked the physical stamina, and in every new dog Andrew saw nothing more than... a pet. None of them could ever take Jeremiah’s place.

Olive was far from an ideal candidate, and on the day the man was offered the pup, Andrew had already rehearsed a "no" in his mind. The three-legged pit bull mix hardly looked like a professional rescue dog; in fact, even less like a "pet." His health? Excellent – a perfect machine built for dogfights. His behavior? Atrocious – more like a lazy lump that feared animals larger than himself and mostly dozed in his enclosure. His build and appearance? A bundle of muscles with a heavy rear, whose guarded expression had repeatedly driven potential owners away. Still young, but no longer a puppy. Though, what did it matter? It was clear this guy would stay here until his death. He wouldn’t survive a single raid, and no family would ever take him as a guard dog. Too much trouble with training and care. Dogs like him were wanted by no one.

At their first meeting – when he was led out to Andrew – Olive didn't lick his boots. He didn't bark or growl either. He just stood there, tilting his head, his small, squinted eyes looking the man dead in the face. The two studied each other for quite a while, and Andrew had no idea what the pit bull was thinking; he himself was thinking about how good Jeremiah had been. And also, that she used to have the same serious, tired gaze as this mutt.

Of course, Olive was not allowed to take Jeremiah’s place. No dog but her deserved to sleep on the bed. Yet, to his own surprise, Andrew found himself easily forgiving the pitbull for chewed-up shoes and phone charging cables. He didn't get angry or raise his voice while training Olive – even if the dog, on his three legs, did everything slowly and clumsily. The man didn't pet him, though – that was a privilege reserved only for Jeremiah – but he often bought Olive's favorite meat sticks. And when the pitbull accidentally bolted into the road one day and almost ended up under a truck, Andrew felt his heart drop into an abyss.

Nineteen lives saved. Two broken bones. Daily threats. Risk. Collapses, debris, explosions.

Andrew barely remembered which evening it was since Olive had taken a place in his home. Two years? Three? The man only remembered that on that particular evening, he was lying down with the TV on mute, while the dog stretched out on the floor beside the bed. Recovering from yet another injury, Olive breathed heavily and with effort. His damp wheezing made Andrew feel as though a knot inside his chest was tightening, pressing against the man’s throat. At the same time, he noted how comforting it was – knowing that Olive was alive. Yes. He recognized the feeling. He was glad his friend was here, with him.

"Olive?"

The dog raised his broad brow-ridges.

"Hey, man... Come here."

The pit bull shifted on his paws with disbelief before scrambling up onto the bed. Andrew smiled as the dog pressed his flank against his leg, and gently stroked the stump of the dog's left hind limb. Olive nudged the man's palm with his wet nose.

Of course, Jeremiah was irreplaceable. Andrew would never forget her. He wasn't forgetting her now. Yet, deep inside, he felt a long-forgotten warmth. Gratitude. Peace. A humble ache for his loss, and with it – the realization that everything would be alright.

The breathing grew easier; the wound was slowly healing.

"You're a good dog, Olive," Andrew said, stroking his fur. Olive closed his eyes and stretched out across half the bed. "You're a very good dog."