House with a Heart Senior Pet Sanctuary takes in senior animals and gives them a place to live out their last days where they are provided with care, comfort and medical attention. Their mission statement:
“The House with a Heart Pet Sanctuary mission is to provide senior and special needs pets with a loving and caring home where they will be allowed to live out their lives in a secure, nurturing environment.
We provide residents with a comfortable, bright, and spotless home environment. They play in secure outdoor yards and spend supervised time in fenced, grassy fields on the two-acre property. Healthcare and wellness screening are ongoing, with veterinary specialists consulted when needed. Pets receive special diets, as necessary, and are fed high-quality foods and treats.
HWAH relies on donations, grants and wish list gifts to accomplish our primary mission of providing quality care for our senior dogs and cats.”
You can donate to the organization here or buy something from the Amazon wishlist.
“At least you got a therapist.” The remnants of Kieran’s breadstick moved like a conductors baton, scattering crumbs as he did a little gesturing of his own and almost colliding with her wine glass in mid-air. “Crap, sorry—- and anyway, Varric’s alright. Seems like a mate more than a therapist, so that’s got to count for something, right?”
Particle physics. Briefly, Kieran let himself wonder where particle physics would fall on the scale of human relationships – or whether it would even qualify. She did this often, he noticed: got him thinking about this possibility or that silly notion. It rarely made sense, and tended to lead to meandering conversations that had them both yawning the next day at work, but they were the sort of talks to look back on and smile, to be fondly recalled over future beers as they started the cycle all over again. They actually talked, not like—– well. They actually talked, was the point, about anything and everything, from weird tangents to her equally weird friends, and in spite of himself, he found himself smiling, enjoying the patter for the distraction it was.
“Your friend Isabela is a legend.” He said emphatically, grinning. “Y’know, when she’s not trying to grab my arse on the sly, but what can you do?” He chuckled, but that brief moment of levity faded just as quickly, the two of them settling back into something considerably more sober. “Kinda envy her, sometimes. I don’t think she’d ever let herself be caught up in any sort of complicated… not that sort, anyway.”
The servers moved as though on rails, swerving effortlessly through the crowds, and Kieran followed Marian’s gaze to watch them, his gaze lingering far longer than hers. Her summary of the situation – as good a euphemism as any – earned her a rueful snort, but it took a little time before he looked back to her, eyes following the mounds of plates and wine and piles upon piles of breadsticks without truly seeing. It was the warmth in her voice that brought him back, his smile as grateful as it was gentle. “Tangled up.” He repeated quietly, and a hand crept across the tablecloth to lie atop hers, squeezing in wordless thanks. “…I think I like that better than mine.”
Tangled up. His stomach certainly felt that way, his breadstick reduced to crumbs on the table rather than the standard path of mouth to stomach, all flakes of crust and smears of butter. All he needed was crayons and a colouring mat and he’d be a three-year-old too big to fit in his high chair. He brushed them away with a grimace, tipping them into the ashtray they weren’t actually allowed to use in this restaurant. He set it aside, resisting the urge to wipe his clammy hands on his nice new dinner slacks, and let out his breath in a long low sigh.
“No harm in telling, I guess,” He said at length – although at that moment, the urge to take up his wineglass and down the lot was looking to be quite attractive. He took another deep breath, his crumb-covered hands clasped on the tabletop to keep from fidgeting. It didn’t work. “I met her four years ago, when I was twenty-two, going on twenty-three. She was… older. Red hair, taller than me with these eyes that could either light you up from the inside or cut you—- you know the type? Don’t even have to say a word, they just… cut you down right where you stand.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever fallen so hard… or so fast. My family and friends didn’t like her, were always suspicious around her, which should have been a red flag, but… I was crazy about her. She acted like a Queen, and I saw her as one: would have done anything for her. Lie, cheat, steal… it didn’t matter. I’d have robbed a bank stark bollock naked and dancing the Macarena if it meant she’d look at me and smile.”
For a few moments, Marian thought she might have overstepped. Kieran’s warm hand lifted from hers to find some crumbs, brushing fastidiously before moving to clasp the tabletop. A familiar apology was just forming on her lips; typical Hawke, always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. She reached forward, batted a few crumbs around for good measure, and was just opening her mouth to make a joke about him attracting pigeons, when Kieran suddenly began speaking again and the words dissolved like sugar on her tongue.
As he spoke, a picture filled itself in. What he described as ‘red’, Marian assumed to be long and mermaid-glossy. Tall was statuesque, no, Amazonian! Obviously, but the way he described the eyes…the eyes she understood in mortal concepts. If Malcolm Hawke were sitting here, he probably would have slapped the table and chimed in with a ‘Hot damn! Sounds like my kind of woman!’
Thinking about that, Marian took a sip of her wine, listening in repose. When Kieran said ‘family and friends’, one face leapt to mind ahead of the others: Felix. Oh, the flinty glances the blonde man had shot Marian at the wedding reception until he and Garrett found a bottle of Connemara whiskey to drown their conspiracy theories in. She understood though, all too well. She would have acted the same if Carver were still alive to be his rash, let-me-learn-the-hard-way self.
“I’d have paid to see that,” Marian flashed a smile. “Unchoreographed bank robberies are getting so dull these days – I can see the headline now. ‘Man Without Pockets Makes Liberal Withdrawal’,” she chuckled, then waved her own humour away. “Sorry. There’s a reason they keep me up in the news helicopter and out of the media room.” She nudged Kieran’s leg beneath the table and kept hers there against it for extra support.
“So, how’s it end with the Red Queen and the dancing fool?”
You want their families to be rivals? I’m down. They dated the same person? Cool. They have the same classes together? Neat. Our first interaction doesn’t need to be our muses first interaction. I like having already developed relationships, adds a little something. Plus, gives the opportunity for a “how did they meet” thread later on.
At that moment he didn’t know whether to kiss her or kill her, but the decision had already been made for him. His treacherous legs took the choice away from him, his traitorous arms snatching her up even as he berated her, angry at her recklessness, at her faux-cheerful assurances that she knew he didn’t buy, not for a second and yet she still bloody did it. He snatched her up and held her too tight and how dare she act as though everything was alright, as though she hadn’t scared the life out of him not five minutes before.
He didn’t know whether to kiss her or kill her, so he kissed her. Kissed her to quiet those reassurances and the promises they both make but neither of them can keep. Kissed her to stop his own angry growls and replace them with something less destructive. Kissed her to remember that yes, she was here, she was real, and if she ever bloody well scared him like that again he’d… he’d… probably go through the exact same routine all over again.
When it was over, and their antics had taken them across two rooms and made him very glad for the new shutters he’d purchased, his anger had all but dissipated. Flash fires rarely lasted, and neither did temper tantrums, and while Kili pressed lazy kisses along the line of her throat, he listened to the rise and fall of her breathing, quiescent for now. There would never be true peace here, not while the Capitol still ruled and held their chains to tug at their whims, but he would take each lull for what it was, and take it gladly enough. He might rage and storm and argue, but storms pass, and as he set his lips below her jaw to feel the pulse thrumming there, he could feel something loosen in his chest.
He would take this respite, and the next, and the next… it didn’t matter how many times this game was played, as long as he knew that her heart still beat.
Marian Hawke 