Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

As soon as I park the Explorer, Sam and Roxy jump out. The latter taking off as she’s prone to do. “Roxy Shaw! Rocks Those Socks, get back here!”

Freaking dog. As much as I love her, she’s another one that has zero respect for me. Without fail she heads straight for the middle of the pristine lawn, looks at me as she squats, and takes an enormous steaming dump. Story of my life––everything always starts out shitty. The good news is it usually gets better…usually.

“Sam, go get your dog.”

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that although my son vowed to help pick up poop when I agreed to adopt a dog, I’ll be the one to clean that up. While Sam goes to grab Roxy, I unlock the front door and step inside. A moment later, boy and dog follow.

Decorated in soothing shades of beige and blue and ivory, the interior is just as stunning as the outside. A sigh of relief escapes me as I glance around. This house screams comfort. All us Shaws are built on the XXL side of the scale so everything in this house is oversized. From the couches to the coffee table to the entertainment center that spans an entire wall. Nothing precious lying around. Nothing that can’t easily be replaced. It’s a house made for a growing family.

We walk into the living room and my flip-flops make a hard stop when my gaze catches on the shiny object resting on the floor. An empty beer can. And empty beer can?

“Gross,” Sam says. My thought exactly.

I glance around and discover on closer inspection that the living room is a mess. Empty pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table. Couch pillows strewn about. More beer cans litter the bleached oak floor.

A pair of black boxer briefs lie next to them. A pair of boxer briefs…wtf??

This looks like the aftermath of a frat party. Or a home invasion. Or possibly a squatter. None of which are good options.

The visceral reaction I have to this is immediate, the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. Prickling heat rolls over me from my scalp to my toes. Sam giggles, I vaguely note. It sounds faraway, barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears.

I’ll tell you this much, I’m not laughing. I’m not because I’m much too busy breaking out in a cold, clammy sweat. Without a word or sound, I pull my son behind me, grab my dog by the collar, and silently creep out of the front door.

Once we’re back on the driveway, I find my voice. “Go to the car, lock the doors, and use my phone to dial 911. Tell them we have a home invasion robbery at 15 Newhope Lane.” When he doesn’t move fast enough, I stamp my foot and hiss-shout, “Can I count on you to do it?”

“I’m not stupid,” he snipes back.

I don’t have time to correct him so glaring to communicate the seriousness of the situation, I point to the car. “Do it and don’t you dare come out of that car.”

“What are you gonna do?” I must’ve gotten through to him because he drops the tough guy routine, trading his mulish expression for a worried one.

“I’m taking Roxy inside to see if anyone is still here. I’m pretty sure whomever did this is long gone, Sammy, but I need to check.”

He throws a last doubtful look my way before running back to the car. Taking a deep breath, I enter armed with the can of pepper spray that is always on my key chain since the day Cal gave me my first one when I left home and my fierce-looking black pit bull bitch.

The foyer is clear, the silence both deafening and reassuring. If anyone’s here they would surely make some noise, right? Yeah, okay. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The living room is next. I pad through quietly, trying to curtail the dread growing in the pit of my gut. What a wreck. Thankfully, an empty wreck though.

Roxy starts to pull me toward the kitchen, her nails frantically scratching against the floor, and the dread ratchets up. This is probably not a good sign, but I’m keeping it positive. Mind over matter and all that.

My legs move at a snail’s pace while my heart knocks double time against my breastbone. Not fast enough for Roxy, who makes a choking sound as she leans into her collar with her full body weight. For the briefest moment I consider letting her go and decide otherwise. Fear that whomever she finds may harm her stops me. Roxy is a living contradiction, a bucket of love stuck in a scary-looking dog’s body. She wouldn’t know what to do if someone tried to hurt her.

The house is eerily quiet with the exception of my dog’s heavy breathing and the blood rushing in my ears. At the threshold of the kitchen, holding my breath, I poke my head in and get a glimpse of absolutely nothing. They’re probably long gone, I tell myself. Which is what gives me the courage to take a full step inside.