Bob was sitting at the desk, working on his memoirs, when he heard a scratching at the cabin door. It was faint, but Sparky, useless mutt that he was, heard it right away and went to the door, barking so loudly that Bob had to set down his pen. Caroline came to the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a towel, asking with her eyebrows what was wrong, and Bob rolled his eyes and went to the door, picking up Sparky so he wouldn't run off into the snow again--it had taken Bob hours to track him down and bring him back, last time.
On the doorstep was a tiny puppy, already asleep, as though scratching at the door had worn it out. Bob picked it up--it barely overflowed the palm of one hand--and then noticed the writing on its side. "Handy K," he read, and looked over at Caroline, shaking his head. "Honestly, dear, I don't know about that boy."
Caroline smiled and came over to Bob, taking the puppy in her arms, wrapping the towel around him like a blanket. "Benton will teach him to hang on better."
Bob shut the door, and set Sparky back down, the better to slip one arm around his wife. "It's the grandchildren I'm worried about," he murmured, "I mean, with the Yank's track record--"
Caroline elbowed him quite expertly in the gut, leaving him bent over and smiling as he gasped for air, watching her head back into the kitchen with the latest arrival. God, how he loved that woman.