The things he did for her. As if saving the world a dozen times and putting up with her adolescent angst and letting her play that horrible music in the car weren't enough. But, no. All Dawn had to do was smile that wide, toothy, incredibly American smile at him and he was driving her deep into the English countryside to buy her a puppy.
A puppy. Useless things - small and clumsy and messy and whiny and needy. Well, he certainly wasn't going to be the one taking it on midnight walks in the rain or cleaning up after it. Dawn swore she'd be responsible, and her arguments were well-constructed. After all, she had played a part in ridding the world of the First Evil and activating the Slayers, which had renewed the Watcher's council and landed him a "cushy desk job" as she called it. A puppy wasn't too terribly much to ask.
Worst of all, she hadn't even selected an English breed. She turned her nose up at the Springer Spaniel, the English Bulldog and the entire terrier group as a whole. After months of research she decided on, of all things, a toy dog. A Miniature Pinscher at that - a watered-down version of the Doberman, he'd thought, only to be vehemently corrected by Dawn and told that not only was the miniature a completely separate breed, it predated the Doberman by several hundred years and had a long history as a kitchen dog, famed for its skill in killing rats and other vermin.
And so, after nineteen tracks of the worst music in the world, they arrive at a small farmhouse, set back on a rolling greenbelt. The door is opened by a kindly-looking woman who leads them into her large, warm kitchen and directs Dawn to a blocked-off corner, then bustles about, making tea and setting out a plate of biscuits for Giles at the rough-hewn table.
After an initial squeal, Dawn quiets. A glance in her direction shows her sitting in the center of a milling mass of tiny black and red bodies, each one being lifted to her face for a cuddle in turn.
"Your daughter?" the lady asks, sitting down across from Giles.
It's easier to say yes than to explain, but it feels good, too. He can't keep the smile off his face.
They chat a bit, and Dawn evaluates the puppies by some method of her own devising, which seems to involve quite a lot of smelling their fur and touching their toes and rubbing their bellies while they mewl in pleasure or possibly alarm.
Giles is startled by something cold and wet, pressing against his ankle. He looks down to see an odd creature. It's small - not as small as the pups, but still no larger than a double handful. Pointed ears and bright eyes and a long nose - cold at the tip; a too long-neck and a small body, perched atop long, thin legs. It looks like nothing so much as a newborn fawn wearing a black and tan jacket.
The lady laughs. "I see you've met my shadow," she says. "He's the last of the previous litter; sort of the disapproving uncle to that lot."
Giles looks at the little dog, and it looks back, regarding him with solemn eyes. Finally, the dog wags its cropped tail twice, and then rears up on hind legs to scratch gently at Giles' shin. They share a long look, and Giles reaches down to pick it up, one hand curving under the ribs like the strap on a lift to haul the small body onto his lap.
The dog takes his new perch as his due and settles, leaning back to rest against Giles' sternum. Finally, he tilts his small head upward and looks at Giles.
Dawn comes back, with a red puppy and a black puppy in either hand, as if weighing them on a scale. "Ooooh, I didn't see that one!"
Giles finds his hands coming up to press the older puppy to his chest and to cover him - it - almost completely. He also finds himself saying, "No. This one is mine," much to Dawn's - and his own - surprise.
Dawn chooses the red puppy and names it "Cody". All the way home, Giles holds the small dog who has chosen him on his lap and drives with one hand, the other smoothing over the sleek fur of the tiny beast who is to be, it seems, his heart's companion. He decides to name him "Hensley."