When Ethan and I adopted Cooper, the shelter volunteer gave us a warning. “He’s a sweetheart,” she said, scratching behind his ears, “but he’s got baggage. Scared of strangers, loud noises, anything sudden.” Six years old, with soft brown eyes that had seen too much, Cooper flinched at every sound and slept curled so tightly he seemed invisible. Yet the first hesitant wag of his tail told me we’d earned something priceless.
At home, Cooper quickly claimed three loves: tennis balls, peanut butter, and the porch. There, he would watch the street for hours, alert but calm. That’s where we met Vanessa.
Vanessa had it all—glossy hair, designer outfits, a luxury car. When she met Cooper, he barked once, and she recoiled. “Could you keep that thing quiet?” she snapped. “Some of us work from home.” Complaints followed daily: “He barks at the mailman,” “He sheds on my sidewalk,” “He looks aggressive.” She even left a note taped to our door: Your animal has no place in a civilized neighborhood.
Despite her hostility, Cooper never retaliated. If anything, he seemed drawn to her, watching her intently whenever she walked by, almost as if he recognized her.
Then came the gray Friday afternoon. I was walking Cooper when a delivery truck backed out too fast. Vanessa, eight months pregnant and oblivious, was in its path. I shouted, “Cooper, stay!” But he bolted. In a split second, Cooper pushed her out of harm’s way, taking the hit from the scare of the truck himself.
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