Grabbing his phone, he called the local animal shelter. A tired voice answered, kind but worn thin.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers,” the woman said gently. “With the storm rolling in, we can’t send anyone out tonight. It’s too dangerous for the team. You’ll have to wait till morning.”
Jeremy thanked her, deflated. He hung up slowly, dread settling like ice in his stomach.
The dog was still outside, hunched low, the snow beginning to pile around it.
There was no time to wait. No time to hesitate.
Jeremy bundled up again—another layer, thicker gloves, a wool cap tugged low. The wind screamed when he opened the back door, and flakes hit his face like needles. He pressed through it, teeth clenched, and headed to the shed.
Inside, he rummaged through clutter and tools, desperate for a solution. He spotted an old squeaky toy, relic of a neighbor’s dog long gone. He held it in his hand, debating. It might distract the dog—or it might provoke it. The rubber was brittle. He tossed it aside.
His eyes landed on a coiled garden hose. Spray it? No. The water would freeze in seconds. The last thing he needed was a patch of black ice or frostbitten fingers.
His frustration mounted.
Then, clarity struck.
Food.
Of course. The oldest trick in the book.
Jeremy raced inside, heading straight for the freezer. He found a pack of sausages, still sealed. He didn’t waste time defrosting them properly—just tore them open, tossed them into a skillet, and turned on the flame.
The smell hit almost immediately—rich, greasy, irresistible. Jeremy’s spirits lifted a fraction.