At the moment, I was looking at the dog. His eyes were warmly brown. . . , the little Chestnut marks above them giving him a questioning expression, as I asked, "Is he a setter?"
"Aye, A Gordon setter. Hunting dogs, they're meant to be, and Hector would have been as well, if his fool of a first owner hadn't ruined him. She took him on a full day's hunt afore he'd ever heard a gunshot. After that, if anything went bang, he'd tuck his tail and run. His owner didn't want him, then. She sent him to the pound."
"And so you rescued him?"
"Aye. It was never his fault, and you don't cast life aside like that." Alastair Scott had been walking towards me while he had been talking, and now he bent briefly to rumple the dogs ears himself, with a leather-gloved hand. "He's got lots of good years in him yet. . . . "
Second chances, I thought, as my gaze shifted slightly to Hector, the dog who'd been branded as useless but rescued because one man firmly believed that a life shouldn't be cast aside.
Page 14 of 495
i expect I will be loving this book. It matches my ideology.