Page 5 of A Furever Home (Gaynor Beach Animal Rescue #8)
I nodded, turned my back on the scene, and walked slowly and calmly— ha, who was I kidding? —I hurried home. The sooner I got into my SUV and busy taking care of things for Arthur, the less time I’d have to worry.
As I drove the short distance from my home in Riverside to the shelter in the tonier Marina Park neighborhood, I considered Kevin’s words.
“He lives at the shelter. Isn’t that the best job ever?
” I thought I had the best job. A run of bad luck had landed me where I was—good coming out of bad.
I’d have given the money back if it meant not going through the shit I had, but I’d come out in one piece—more or less—and I had a new home, my doggie-daycare business, and a fresh start in an LGBTQ-friendly town.
What I didn’t have were friends, or any kind of support system here.
What I also didn’t have was a familiar routine, that sense of knowing where I was and how I belonged.
Seeing Kevin with his dads, hearing them talk about all of Arthur’s friends, made me feel alone.
Of course Arthur has friends. A guy like that, what would he need with me? But a promise was a promise, and I’d do my best for him.
I parked in the front lot, exited my vehicle, and headed to the door beneath a cool mural of cats and dogs that spanned the upper story. I stepped inside the airlock entry, pushed open the inner door, and stopped short. Not what I expected.
The floor under my feet looked like expensive marble, or the best fake I’d seen. The lighting fixtures overhead were chandeliers dripping with sparkling crystals. This is a shelter?
A woman hustled out from the back area. “We’re closed. Sorry, I was about to lock the front door. We open again tomorrow morning at nine.”
“My name is Brooklyn. Uh… Arthur asked me to come by, and?—”
“Arthur? Do you know where he is? He tore out of here, and I haven’t been able to reach him, and Mario’s out sick. I’m done with my shift, and I have to get to my night class, but I can’t just leave. But I’m writing a big exam. I can’t be late…” She bit her lip.
“Well, then my timing’s perfect. Arthur asked me to do evening feedings .”
“Oh, thank goodness!” Her eyes brightened, looking so happy that I choked back the words “Arthur got shot,” Someone else, someone closer to her, could pass along that news.
After all, she’d want to know if Arthur was okay, but I had no clue, and there was nothing she could do right now. Let her write her exam.
He has to be okay…
“Do you know the routine?” she asked.
“No. I run a local doggie daycare though, so I’m good with the critters.”
“Cool! Come on, come on.” She hustled me down a hallway. “It’s all written down, but I’ll show you quickly. I’m Vicky, by the way.” She gestured for me to follow her.
So, I did. And she took me through everything with such speed that I was breathless. Kitchen, food, feeding list, bowls, runs, cat room.
Then she handed me the keys and was gone.
I couldn’t blame her for leaving, although I did wonder about her giving keys to a stranger.
She must’ve really been stressed about that test. Although probably there wasn’t much to steal, unless I wanted to take off with a mixed-breed pit bull.
And, as I’d said, Arthur sent me. It seemed like “Arthur” was a magic word to earn her trust.
I carried the list with me as I fed the various animals in the kennels.
Each dog got their meal. I took time to read the chart on each door, focusing on the behavior notes like “Escape artist” and “He will jump on you” and “Very timid. Don’t approach.
” I smiled at one that said, “Super friendly but will shark-bite for treats; watch your fingers.” This I understood.
This I was good at—runs full of dogs with their tails up or down, wagging or still, ears pricked or flattened, approaching or hanging back, eyeing me or looking away.
Running a doggie daycare meant I’d had to get adept with dog body language.
For the first time in an hour, I felt grounded and competent.
While the dogs ate, I did the cats. Not my area of expertise, but the instructions were clear.
Food, water, each cat litterbox required an evaluation and, in a few cases, fresh litter.
The place was cleaner than I expected. Clearly Vicky had taken care of everything to this point.
I wondered if I should try to walk the dogs, and was out inspecting the exercise yard when a battered pick-up with a topper drove up to the side door.
Is that Arthur’s truck? I hadn’t paid enough attention.
The man who swung out was a few inches shorter than me with a shock of red hair. He came toward me, eyeing me with assessing green eyes. “Brooklyn?”
“Yes. Brooklyn West.” I held out my hand and we shook. He looked familiar.
“I’m Colin Reynolds. We met when Phillip picked up Wally, remember? You took care of the little Yorkie back in the summer. My husband, James, is Arthur’s best friend. He’s at the hospital with him now.”
“How’s Arthur? Is he okay?” I demanded.
Colin frowned. “I wish we knew. He’s getting a cat scan or something. They won’t say anything even to James. He sent me here to take care of evening chores, because I hate hospitals.”
I did too, so I knew better than to ask him why. “I made a start. Everyone’s fed. But not walked.”
“What about Arthur’s dogs?”
“Uh? Arthur’s?”
“Come on.” Colin led the way back into the building.
“Let me introduce you to his menagerie. Up these stairs.” He headed toward the second floor up a narrow steep flight of stairs.
“This is Arthur’s apartment, and these are…
” He pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the door. “The drama brigade.”
A big black lab galumphed over and tried to leap on Colin, then at the last minute swerved to land huge paws on my chest.
I caught those bear-sized front feet with the ease of long practice, aiming the dog back to four on the floor.
“Ebony, off,” Colin ordered.
A beagle, sitting by the doorway into a small kitchen, howled in our direction with flop-eared pathos.
“That’s Twain, lying about how starved he is. The little chihuahua mix is Chili, and the cat—” Colin spun in a circle, then pointed at the top of a bookcase.
A longhaired Siamese-like cat peered down at us with scornful pure-blue eyes.
Like Arthur’s. His dazed, imploring gaze rose in my memory.
“That’s Xandra,” Colin finished. He addressed the dogs. “Sorry guys, your daddy won’t be back for a bit. But this nice guy Brooklyn and I are here to do dinner and walkies and maybe some butt-scritches, till we find out how your daddy’s doing and how soon he’ll be home.”
Resisting the temptation to look around Arthur’s home, I focused on cleaning water bowls and opening cans and bags to fill food dishes.
Working with Colin, forced to guess since there was no helpful list of directions here, we got everyone fed and he located the pill he knew Xandra needed, and convinced her to take it in some minced tuna.
Then we walked every canine in the building, except one poor shepherd-mix too scared to come out of the run.
It was good to keep busy, to be productive.
The beat of worry in my head was muted as long as I had things to do.
But by the time we reluctantly locked up for the night, with Colin taking a bag of clothes for Arthur and promising he’d come back to meet the morning volunteers, we still hadn’t heard if Arthur was okay.
I went home and scrubbed my house within an inch of its life—even though it was already spotless—until I was finally tired enough to sleep. But my dreams were haunted by hospitals and gunshots, blood, and nebulous anxiety where I tried to prevent a disaster and always arrived too late.