by Donna Ball
“Good.”
I said, “I’m sorry I accused you of shooting Cisco. I was wrong.”
“So you were.”
That was not the most gracious acceptance of an apology I had ever heard. But then, perhaps I could have been more gracious in delivering it.
I added, a little grudgingly, “Thanks for the new animal shelter.”
He smiled. “Just trying to make friends in high places.”
I was getting cold, and I rubbed one furry-slipper-covered foot against the other to illustrate the fact. “Is there anything else?”
He held out the package to me. “If you would be good enough to deliver this to Cisco, with my best wishes for a speedy recovery.”
I took the fancily wrapped box hesitantly, gave him a cautious, studious look, and then carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each one nestled in its own velvet-lined, custom-molded cup, were a dozen gourmet dog biscuits, individually wrapped in gold foil.
I tried not to smile. I really did. But I couldn’t help it. I looked at Miles Young for a long moment, standing there on my porch in the dark and cold, and then I opened the door wider and invited him in.
Change can sneak up on you sometimes, knock you flat, bowl you over. Sometimes there’s just no point in fighting it.
And sometimes it’s not such a bad thing.