It was a typical slow Sunday. We were flipping through TV channels out of boredom when my kid, Tamsin, suddenly said, “Let’s go see some dogs.”
Not adopt one—just look. That was the agreement.
The shelter was crowded and chaotic—barking echoed off the walls, the smell was intense, and every kennel had handwritten notes taped up. We were getting ready to leave when we noticed him.
A giant, shaggy dog pressed against the wire gate, his big brown eyes locked on Tamsin like he’d been waiting just for her.
He wasn’t even close to what we thought we were after. We live in a small place with no proper yard. But as soon as the kennel door opened and he leaned his full weight into Tamsin like a giant, needy marshmallow, I knew we were done for.
“Just a trial run,” I told the volunteer as I filled out the paperwork.
Now, two months in, he’s still with us—hogging the sofa and sprawling across our laps like he’s always belonged here. We named him Moose, because, really, what else do you call a 100-pound cuddle bug?
But recently, I’ve started to wonder if Moose is sticking close to Tamsin for more than just snuggles.
It’s like he senses something I haven’t quite pieced together yet.
At first, I brushed it off. Moose shadowed Tamsin everywhere—even waiting outside the bathroom while she brushed her teeth. He’d gently nudge her hand if she went quiet or curl up at her feet during homework. It was sweet… maybe a little intense.
Then the nightmares started.
Tamsin used to sleep like a rock, but lately, she’s been waking up in the middle of the night, crying out. And every time, Moose is already there before I can even reach her—resting his huge head on her pillow like he’s saying, I’ve got you.
One morning, after another rough night, I asked her gently what was going on.
“Nothing,” she said, eyes averted.
I didn’t press—yet—but I started watching more closely.
Moose, on the other hand, wasn’t letting it go.
A few days later, I spotted them in the backyard near the old oak tree. Moose was digging like his life depended on it, flinging dirt in all directions. Tamsin stood nearby with her arms folded, silently watching.
“What’s going on out here?” I called.
Tamsin tensed and said flatly, “He just started digging. I don’t know why.”
Her voice set off alarms in my head. I walked over and glanced into the hole Moose had made. Something shiny caught my eye.
“Hang on,” I said, kneeling down.
I grabbed a trowel from the shed and carefully cleared away the dirt. Beneath it all was a rusted, dented tin box. When I pried it open, inside was a bundle of letters, tied together with string…