That night, I didn’t sleep.
I kept thinking about those puppies. Their tiny paws. The way they squirmed against each other for warmth. And the man—silent, proud, doing what he could with what little he had.
The next morning, Saturday, I drove back. No office, no boss waiting for me. Just me and a plan I hadn’t fully thought through.
He wasn’t at the usual spot. My heart jumped. But then I saw him further down the field, sitting on a crate, feeding one of the pups with a dropper.
He looked up, surprised. “You’re not working today.”
I sat beside him. “Neither are you.”
He chuckled—a small, dry sound. “Goats don’t take weekends off.”
I held out a small box of supplies—baby blankets, a feeding bottle, a can of puppy formula I’d picked up from a 24-hour pet store. “I thought maybe… they could use this.”
He stared at the box, then at me. His eyes, always steady, shimmered just slightly. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I said. “But I wanted to.”
He looked down at the puppy in his hands. “I’ve been trying not to get attached.”
“Too late,” I said gently.
