He had an absolute magic touch with the animals.
We would regularly bring him the most t*rr*fied, tr*um*tized, and *ggr*ssive dogs we pulled from h*rr*fic situations.
Arthur would just sit quietly inside their kennels with a good book. He didn’t force them to come to him. He didn’t try to pet them right away.
He simply remained completely still, radiating a deep, grounding energy that only a man who had seen the worst of the world could possess.
The broken dogs just inherently knew he was a safe place. They would slowly creep up to him, eventually resting their trembling chins right on his heavy boots. He healed their *nv*sible w*unds simply by being near them.
Barnaby lived a glorious, completely pain-free life for another fourteen beautiful months on the farm.
When his worn-out hips finally gave out completely and his organs began to naturally fail, our entire network gathered.
