Rescuing Finley (A Forever Home Novel Book 1)

by Dan Walsh

  John walked down the narrow path toward the fire pit, saw a smiling Alfred waving, pointing at an empty canvas chair beside him. A steaming cup of coffee sat on a makeshift table. Though the woods were pretty thick out by the road and for the first hundred yards or so, they opened into a nice clearing where the tents had been set up. Here, only a few shady trees stuck out of the ground every so often, palm trees had sprouted here and there, and lots of skinny saplings were scattered all about.

  “There you are,” Alfred said. “Nice and toasty over here.”

  John could feel the heat even this far from the fire. More than the heat, he was aware of that coffee cup. As he walked around and behind Alfred to avoid the smoke, another guy who’d been sitting a few feet away got up and headed toward a tarped area, where breakfast was being served.

  “If you’re hungry,” Alfred said, “maybe you should follow him. They’re not gonna serve breakfast much longer.”

  John sat and picked up the cup of coffee. “This is all I need. Thanks for getting it.”

  “No problem.”

  John took a few slow sips. He stretched out his legs to warm up his boots. Between the fire, the coffee going down smooth, the breakfast smells hanging in the air, and the sun shining through the trees…this wasn’t so bad after all. But you could have all this a few hours south and be totally rid of the cold as well. He leaned over in Alfred’s direction. “While it’s just the two of us here, I want to bring up something we’ve talked about before.”

  “I know what you’re gonna say already.”

  “You do? Okay, what is it?”

  Alfred stared into the fire. “You’re gonna say, we’re in Florida. Florida’s a long state. What are we doing so far north? Why don’t we head further south a few hours? Find a place where we don’t freeze our butts off at night.” He looked at John. “Am I right?”

  “Okay. So maybe I’ve been talking about this a little too much. But can you blame me? I don’t know how you’re putting up with this weather. Doesn’t it bother your arthritis?”

  “It bothers me some. But I’m telling you, John. I ain’t ever been in a place like this, where I feel mostly safe at night. You never been attacked before.”

  “I have, too.”

  “Not like I have.”

  He’d almost forgotten. Two years ago, Alfred had been ambushed in the middle of the night by two guys who’d broken into their camp. Beat him up real good. Stole all his stuff. Took him four days in the hospital to recover. “Okay, not like you have.”

  Alfred pointed to the guy who’d just left. “See him? He just came up here a few days ago from a camp just south of Orlando. Said a guy in the group he was staying with got hacked to death by some lunatic with a machete. Not beat up, killed. Right in his tent. Happened three nights ago. That’s why he left and came up here. I knew you were going to want to talk about this again, so I asked him how cold it was down there, you know, at nighttime. Know what he said? It wasn’t bad at all. At night or during the day. I didn’t even have to ask him, why then didn’t he just stay put. You know why?”

  “Okay,” John said. “I get it. They ever catch the guys that did it?”

  “Nope.”

  “So they’re still out there somewhere.”

  “Down there somewhere,” Alfred said. “Not up here.”

  “You don’t know that. If they didn’t get caught, what’s keeping ‘em from making their way up here?”

  “They wouldn’t do that. No one in their right minds would head north in December, not with it being this cold.”

  John just stared at him. Did Alfred even realize he’d just admitted they weren’t in their right minds either, staying up here where it was so cold? “Never mind,” John said.

  “Anyway,” Alfred said, “that killer could never get into this camp. Too many people. And everyone here knows everyone else. They’d stick out like a sore thumb. Besides that, they don’t let just anyone plop a tent down here. It’s invite-only. You should-a heard all the questions they asked me before they said yes about you coming in.”

  John sighed. How did Alfred think any of that made them any more secure than people in homeless camps anywhere else in the state? At night, camps were all the same. Dark. Anyone who wanted to could sneak around in the dark any time they pleased. They could come up here and attack you in the cold, or stay down south and do it where it was nice and warm. “Alright, you win. I won’t bring it up again.”

  Just then, some excitement started up over at the tarped breakfast area. A bunch of people were gathering around. “What’s that about?” John said.

  “I’m not sure,” Alfred said. “Looks like the camera guy. The one making that documentary? I think he just showed up.”

  “Great,” John said. “That’s just great.”

  2

  Savannah, Georgia

  Now this was kind of exciting. He wasn’t sure why just yet, but Riley could tell by the look on everyone’s faces, this thing they were doing was a good thing. It made them happy. He liked it when his people were happy.

  His tail still wagging, Riley followed close behind the woman. Her name was Mom. She stepped out of the big walk-in closet in the master bedroom and handed a box to Jeffrey. It was too high off the ground for Riley to see inside. But Jeffrey could see it, and his eyes lit up.

  “Snowmen,” Jeffrey said. “Can I bring these downstairs?”

  “That’s why I’m giving them to you,” Mom said. “But don’t take them out of the box yet. Wait till we get all the boxes down. Just stack them on top of the coffee table.”

  “Okay.” He turned toward the stairwell.

  “And be careful going down the stairs. That’s why I gave you a small box, so you could keep one hand on the rail.”

  “I will.”

  His big sister, Lisa, stepped into the same spot and held out her hands. “You can give me a bigger box than that.”

  Riley started following Jeffrey down the stairs. He always followed Jeffrey, if there were more than one family member in the room. Jeffrey wasn’t his leader. Not exactly. But he was the one who’d spent the most time with Riley, the one who treated him the best. Mom was definitely in charge. The man who was mostly called Dad (but sometimes Tom) was also pretty important. But Dad was usually gone most of the day. Like right now.

  After going down three steps, Riley had to pass Jeffrey or risk running into the back of his legs. He hurried to the bottom and spun around to greet him. His tail thumped on the oval throw rug. What was in that box and why did it make Jeffrey so happy? He sniffed the air but couldn’t pick up any unusual scents.

  As Jeffrey carried the box to the coffee table, Riley couldn’t help himself. He had to see what was inside. He stood on his hind legs, put his front paws across Jeffrey’s arm and licked his ear.

  Jeffrey laughed. “Get down, Riley.” He lowered his arm. Riley’s front legs slid back to the floor. “You sit, and I’ll show you what it is.”

  Riley understood two words: down and sit. He obeyed.

  As he did, footsteps came down the stairs. He turned to see Lisa carrying another box.

  “Here,” Jeffrey said, holding a white stuffed toy in front of Riley’s face. “It’s a snowman. See?” He set it on the coffee table.

  Of course, Riley grabbed it in his mouth. He instantly liked the way it felt as he crunched down on it.

  “Riley! Drop it!” Lisa yelled, from the bottom of the stairs.

  He did and instantly lowered his head.

  “Don’t put that right in front of his face,” she said to Jeffrey. “Are you stupid? He’ll think it’s a toy, just like his squirrel.” She set her box on the other end of the coffee table.

  “He wasn’t going to hurt it,” Jeffrey said. “You don’t have to yell.” He patted Riley on the head. “It’s okay, boy. You didn’t know, did you?”

  “He didn’t hurt it because I yelled. You can’t let him play with these things. He can’t tell the difference.”

  “I w
asn’t letting him play with it. He just grabbed it. But he’d let it go just as fast if you asked him nicely.”

  Riley wasn’t sure what they were saying, but he liked the way Jeffrey said his part more. The only word he did understand was Squirrel. Squirrel was his favorite. He loved it more than anything. They’d been together since Riley was a puppy. He ran over to his dog bed in the corner to check on it. Good, right where he’d left it. He lifted it with his mouth and lay down.

  His dog bed and Squirrel. Two of his favorite things.

  “Look at him,” Lisa said in a sweet voice. “That’s right, Riley. You can have Squirrel.” She looked at her brother. “Not the snowman. Which reminds me, Jeffrey, when we start setting up these Christmas decorations, you can’t put any of the stuffed ones on a level Riley can reach. The plastic ones and the ceramic ones are fine, but not the stuffed ones.” She opened the lid to her box and pulled something out. “And not cloth ones, either. Like this angel. Riley would tear this up and not think a thing about it.”

  “Mom already told me this.”

  “I’m just reminding you.”

  Riley kept hearing his name. They weren’t calling him, so he stayed put. Lisa was nice to him sometimes, but other times she could become mean very quickly. She’d yell at him and say many things he didn’t understand. He always responded by sending her calming signals, but she never seemed to pick up on his messages. Because of this, he was mostly nervous whenever she came around.

  Lisa put the angel back in the box and closed the lid. She headed back up the stairs. “C’mon, Jeffrey. Stop playing with the snowmen. There’s still a bunch more boxes to bring down.”

  “Okay.” He got up and followed her.

  Riley dropped Squirrel and was just about to follow Jeffrey up the stairs when he heard a familiar sound outside. His ears perked up. It was a car pulling in the driveway. Sounded like Dad’s car. He barked to let everyone know and ran to the front door.

  He barked several more times. Now a door closed. Footsteps on the sidewalk outside.

  “Mom?” Jeffrey called, halfway up the stairs. “I think Dad just got home.” He turned and headed back down the steps. “Why’s he coming home so early?”

  “Riley,” Lisa yelled. “Stop barking.”

  Riley heard keys jingling in the lock. It was the same sound he always heard. Had to be Dad. He backed out of the way, his tail wagging all the while.

  Jeffrey reached the front door just as it opened. “Dad, it is you.”

  “It’s me.”

  Lisa arrived and stood behind her brother. Riley heard more footsteps down the stairs. It was Mom.

  “Tom,” she said from the stairs. “What are you doing home so early? Is everything okay at work?”

  “Look at the smile on my face,” he said. “What’s that tell you?”

  Everyone seemed happy. Something good must be going on. Riley ran between their legs and began greeting Dad.

  “Hey boy, how ya doing?” The father bent over slightly to pat his head. Riley kept jumping up on him, licking his hands and wagging his tail. “Okay, okay. Back up. Let me get through the door.”

  The mother walked up, hugged and kissed Dad. He closed the door then everyone walked to the middle of the living room. “I see you’re getting the Christmas decorations out.”

  “Well, just the decorations for now,” Mom said. “Remember? We talked about it this morning at breakfast? The kids and I would decorate the house this afternoon, then all of us would do the tree together tonight. But I thought I still had three hours.”

  “Well…” A big smile came over his face. “The plans have changed.”

  “Dad, what are you talking about?” Lisa said.

  “We’re not setting up the tree tonight?” Jeffrey said.

  “No, we’re not,” Dad said. “Not tonight and not for about five more nights.”

  “What?” Mom said. “Tom, what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on?” he repeated. “We’re not decorating or setting up the tree tonight, because…tonight we have to pack.”

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  Author’s Note about Rescuing Finley

  I’ve been a dog lover for as long as I can remember. Growing up, we had two dogs. Six weeks after we got married, my wife and I picked out a dog from our local Humane Society. We’ve had at least one dog in our home ever since (we’ve been married for thirty-nine years). Right now, we have two.

  It’s fair to say my wife, Cindi, loves dogs even more than I do. Several years ago, we officially became empty-nesters. After homeschooling our children and working as a bookkeeper at our church, I told her I thought she should spend our latter years together doing something for herself, something she enjoyed. When asked what she’d like to do, she didn’t hesitate. “I want to go back to school and become a certified dog trainer.”

  She did just that, earning a 4.0 GPA and, for 4 years, she was the Animal Behavior Manager at our local Humane Society. In the summer of 2016, she began training dogs on her own. She’s trained hundreds of dogs, both privately and in group classes. In 2016, she was voted the “best dog trainer in town” in the greater Daytona Beach area. She’s amazing to watch, and I’ve learned so much about dogs and dog behavior from her. I’ve done a lot of additional research, but Cindi has been a primary consultant throughout this book, and she’s agreed to help me with the rest of the books in this series.

  Although not totally based on Cindi, many aspects of my character, Kim Harper, have come from conversations with her. I should also mention that in Rescuing Finley, I depict a local Humane Society and a prison training program where female inmates train shelter dogs to be used as service dogs for military veterans. Such shelters and prison programs like this do exist (I’ll say a little more about them in a moment), but it would be wrong to conclude the ones depicted in my novel are based on actual places or programs.

  They are not. Both are fictitious.

  In my research, I studied about numerous animal shelters and prison programs that train shelter dogs. I decided to create something of a composite situation that better served the needs of my story. But I do want to say how much I greatly admire all those who work in animal shelters—both the paid staff and volunteers. If you enjoyed this story, please do all you can to support their ongoing efforts.

  The idea for this Rescuing Finley came from spending time listening to Cindi’s stories and volunteering some of my time at Halifax Humane Society, our local non-profit shelter serving the Daytona Beach area. They support a local prison program that trains dogs; many who are adopted by veterans struggling with PTSD.

  I began to look further into this and read numerous stories on the news about other programs across the country doing similar things (matching trained shelter dogs with military vets). I researched them online and w
atched dozens of video testimonies. The sad reality is that tens of thousands of our young men and women, who’ve served us so heroically in Iraq and Afghanistan, come home suffering the debilitating and life-dominating effects of PTSD. The VA provides some help, but it is clearly not enough. Tragically, even now, 22 veterans commit suicide every day in the United States.

  This is a national tragedy.

  A significant part of my motivation to write Rescuing Finely was to draw attention to this issue, and to one very solid solution that offers veterans dramatic and positive results. I’ve listened to veterans who’ve received one of these trained service dogs, and they were all saying the same thing: “This dog saved my life.” Many of them have also struggled with suicidal thoughts, some had even tried.

  But they aren’t thinking that way anymore. They’ve experienced a complete turn-around in their situation and our coping with their PTSD symptoms far more effectively.

  It is also my hope that Rescuing Finley will open the eyes of thousands of storekeepers, restaurant owners and ordinary citizens to the great value these service dogs provide our veterans. Veterans shouldn’t feel like anyone is looking down on them or judging them because of their dog. When we see them, we should do everything we can to make them feel welcome.

  Some veterans don’t bare any obvious physical battle scars. I think people are more naturally sympathetic when they see a veteran with a service dog if they’re in a wheelchair or wearing a prosthetic limb. But PTSD, all by itself, is a very real and very serious consequence of living in mortal danger for months or years at a time.

  Every veteran who struggles with PTSD deserves our compassion and deep respect.

  Thanks for listening,