Noah blames it on the war.

He finds himself blaming everything on the war, nowadays. The nights he wakes up in a cold sweat, not knowing where he is, or what's happening. And his mind races, telling him he's back in the trenches; gun shots, shouting, blood, not being able to breathe... it takes time for him to come out of it. It doesn't help that he lives by himself, in a house he built by himself by his favorite lake so he can go out on his canoe and feed the swans. Sometimes, the quiet gets to him.

So, he finds himself at the local hybrid shelter, searching for something... to quell his loneliness and keep himself grounded in times when the present feels so far away, and memories of the war are bombarding him. Maybe even someone just as broken as him. So, he finds himself wandering the halls of the shelter, eyeing all the different dog hybrids; some barking, some sad looking, others oblivious and happy, some young, some old. He wishes he could take them all home, but he supposes one will do for now.

He finds you quickly. You catch his eye, because you won't even face the front of the kennel. You're curled up in the corner, facing the wall. Afraid. The worker tells him you're from a puppy mill. You had been bred over and over again, forced to have puppies, then losing them. Over and over again.

He has to choose you. He has space- acres of grass for you to romp and roll in. A lake for you to swim in, if you want. You're like him, and even as he stares at your cowering form, he knows that there isn't any other hybrid he would want. You deserve a calm life with warm sun and space to play.

So, he takes you home as you tremble with fear and whine softly, your tail tucked between your legs. You're terrified of men, of loud noises, everything under the sun. He gets you home quick, picking you up from the backseat as you sit frozen, and slowly lowers you into grass. You had never felt grass, never been outside before.

He has a pile of toys laid out in the grass for you, but you seem too scared to even move.