I stared at the tiny brown dog huddling at the far corner of the kennel, my heart twisted with sympathy. Her eyes were bright and captivating, imbued with fear and distress. When our gazes met, she averted her eyes to one side of the wall. 

“Mila,” I called out softly. Mila is the name on a laminated card attached to her kennel gate. She lifted her head slightly, then dropped back down, still looking away. 

“She’s adorable,” said Grandpa, who was right next to me and helping me choose a pet for my birthday.

I nodded. “But I don’t think she likes me.” 

“Mila used to be a stray dog. She was probably abused before.” Grandpa said grimly. Then he greeted her, “Hello, Mila.” His voice was deep and gentle. 

As if there was a charm in his voice, Mila turned to us, her eyes registering expectation this time. I smiled and gave a little wave with my fingers. 

“See, Amber, she wants a home. Do you want to adopt her?” Grandpa turned toward me. 

I nodded with a big smile. My heart pounded with joy.

On our way home, Mila and I sat in the backseat while Grandpa drove and whistled the lighthearted tune of “Don’t Worry Be Happy”. 

Mila curled up like a cinnamon roll on the other end of the seat. I stroked her densely-furred body, but she squirmed out of my touch. 

“Mila doesn’t let me touch her,” I complained. 

Grandpa paused his whistle and made a quick glimpse of us through the rear-view mirror. “Don’t worry. She just met you. She’s still nervous.”

I withdrew my hand and watched Mila drift off into a peaceful sleep. Sunlight streamed through the car window, shedding a honey hue on her soft body. 

In the following days, Mom bought a bolster dog bed, toys, treats, and other essentials for Mila. Grandpa taught me how to care for her. Mila spent most of the time in her bed, her head laying between her paws. Sometimes, she strolled around and sniffed objects. But whenever Mila spotted me approaching, she retreated to her bed and faced away from me. 

Grandpa seemed to be the only one she trusted. Mila liked to see him around and even followed him. He petted her and caressed the soft part of her muzzle. Mila licked his calloused hands, as if thanking him. 

“That’s not fair,” I mumbled. “I’m nice to her too.”

Grandpa patted my back and said, “I’m sure she knows you’re friendly. Just be patient. When she’s ready, she’ll come to you.”

“Really?” I glanced at Mila, who was yawning in Grandpa’s arms like an innocent baby, and looked forward to that day. 

Grandpa’s visit to us soon ended. On the day he headed back to his farm, Mom and I saw him off as he hopped into his rusty truck. We promised to visit him during the summer break. As his truck steered out of sight, I noticed Mila perching on the windowsill, staring in the direction of Grandpa’s truck. She’s probably missing him as much as I am.

The days without Grandpa missed a lot of laughter and joy. But Mila didn’t reject me as much, which came as a relief to me. She allowed me to walk and feed her although she was still uncomfortable when I touched her. Then I remembered Grandpa’s words “When she’s ready, she’ll come to you.” So I just waited and watched her sleep and play by herself. Every day, when I walked home from school, I saw Mila waiting for me behind the windowpane of our living room. It warmed my heart.

I counted the days when summer break would arrive and Mom and I would take Mila to Grandpa’s farmhouse. Grandpa and I would lounge on his porch swing, watching Mila join his farm dogs to scamper and caper around. As that image flitted through my mind, a grin escaped my lips. 

But things didn’t go as I had wished.

One afternoon, when I returned home from school, Mom was sobbing on the sofa, face buried in her hands. Seeing me back home, she wiped away her tears and motioned me to sit next to her. 

I eased myself onto the sofa. A swell of disquiet enfolded my heart like a heavy fog. 

Mom wrapped one arm around me. I could see her lips quiver as she suppressed the urge to cry again. “Amber. Your...your grandpa…” she said, choking. “Your grandpa… he passed away this morning.”

Those words stabbed my heart, bringing a sudden sharp pain. I erupted from the sofa and stammered, “That…that can’t be true! Grandpa’s the strongest person I know!” My voice rose nearly to a shout, my breaths heavy and labored. 

Mom’s eyes were bloodshot with tears. “It was a heart attack. When they took him to the hospital it was already too late.”

My head started spinning and I broke out crying in a wail.

A week later, after attending Grandpa’s funeral, Mom, Mila, and I stayed in his farmhouse. The once neatly mowed fields were choked with overgrown weeds and wild grass.

I entered the guest room, where I used to stay when I visited Grandpa, and climbed up onto the wooden bed, curling up into a ball. Tears sprang to my eyes again, damping the pillow below. 

My eyelids became heavy and my mind grew fuzzy. I dropped into sleep, where I dreamed of Grandpa patting my back and telling me, “It will be alright.”

When I opened my eyes, the room was quiet and dim, a sliver of moon filtering through the lace curtain. I felt a warm, wet tongue licking my cheek. Mila. She was snuggling next to me, her smooth fur brushing against my bare arm, making me feel cozy and loved. I caressed her back, and Mila looked at me with affection. 

“Thank you, Mila,” I murmured and cuddled her small body. And we stayed like that the whole night.