Beaglemania (6 page)

“I told you I didn’t do anything wrong.” Efram’s voice was suddenly raised as if to combat the now nearly nonexistent ruckus from the nearby dogs. His anger seemed barely in check, and I glanced around, glad to see a couple of pit bull mixes nearby that, if necessary, I could let loose. These two were sweethearts, but with the breed’s reputation of violence, they might scare Efram into backing off.

Or not, since he seemed to be gearing up to start his own reputation of violence.

“That may be,” I said, forcing my voice to sound more angry than afraid—even though the two emotions vied for priority. “But I couldn’t help watching the news over the past few days. The neighbor who claims to have called in the complaint to Animal Services about the puppy mill in the first place has said in interviews that she knows the owners, the Shaheens, and that she saw someone else throwing the puppies into the storm drain. Someone in shadows, whose description could be yours. The Shaheens have been interviewed, too. They’re not saying much, but they seem pretty upset that someone—not them, though they haven’t identified the culprit to the media—dared to throw pups into the drain, like they were trash, not beloved animals.”

Strange, that the Shaheens seemed to give a damn about the mistreated offspring they’d bred into the world—even if it might only be because they saw dollar signs floating in the storm drain instead of puppies.

“Not me. I want the money you and Dante promised me, Lauren, and I’m willing to work for it.”

Ah. This had to be the crux of his demands, his real reason for coming here. “I’ll talk to Dante about it again,” I responded civilly, although I already knew the answer—the same one I’d gladly hurl into Efram’s face now if he weren’t so menacing. Including a demand that he pay back all the money he hadn’t really earned. But that could come later, when I wasn’t alone with this vile man. “I really think you’d better leave now, though, till all this is resolved.”

I turned and started walking back toward the entrance gate, my hand outstretched in invitation to Efram to go through it—permanently.

He grabbed my arm and twisted it. “No way, bitch. I want my money.”

Ignoring the pain that speared through my arm, I wrested it away. “That’s enough, Efram. Get the hell out of here, immediately.” I still couldn’t force him to do anything, but I’d shouted so loudly that the dogs all started barking again—and my voice was even more voluble than theirs.

I was relieved when Si and Angie emerged hastily from the center building. Both had assisted in our attempt to reeducate Efram, so they knew him.

They approached us, which hurled my emotions into further turmoil. I didn’t want them endangered, but maybe there was safety in numbers.

Or maybe not.

“What are you doing here, Efram?” Angie demanded. “People who work at puppy mills aren’t welcome. Those poor animals!”

“Like she said.” Si looked at me, as if trying to confirm my opinion.

I nodded. “Efram was just leaving.” I didn’t look at him.

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” he growled. “I’m leaving for now. But you can be sure I’ll be back. And if you think I may have abused animals before, just wait till you see how nasty I can get. And not just to the damned dogs and cats you keep here.” He paused, and only then did I glance at him. His face was a feral mask of rage. “Everyone here had just better watch their backs,” he said in a voice so low it was hard to hear. “All of you—especially you, Vancouver.” He shot an extra-menacing glare at me, and then he strode toward the rear exit—even as I finally heard a siren from down the street.

Unsurprisingly, Efram vanished before the police arrived. I told the officer who interviewed me—a young African American guy who clearly loved animals—what had happened. I gathered that, despite Efram’s ugly threat, he would probably not be arrested for his intrusion into HotRescues that day.

I had Nina take the cop for a walk around the shelter, ostensibly to make sure Efram wasn’t hiding in some remote alcove, but also because I had the sense that the officer was interested in seeing our residents, and I wanted to encourage that. His partner, an older, no-nonsense female cop, pretended disinterest, but she accompanied them.

I returned to the welcome area. It was long past the time when the woman who’d called so often said she was bringing in her dog. Maybe she had at long last made the final decision to keep her pup at home.

But that wasn’t the case. A thin thirtysomething lady was standing there when I arrived. She wore tight jeans and a loose shirt in a colorful print pattern.

Sitting on the floor at her feet, his leash slack since he wasn’t moving, was a golden retriever mix. He looked toward me with anxious eyes as I joined them.

I believe that pets understand a lot more than most people give them credit for. Often, they recognize words. Even more, they read moods, especially of the people they love.

This dog clearly sensed something terrible was afoot.

“Hi,” I said, immediately taking charge. Approaching the woman with my hand outstretched, I continued, “I’m Lauren Vancouver, director of administration of HotRescues.”

“I’m Brooke Pernall, and this is Cheyenne.” Brooke didn’t shake my hand or meet my eyes. Her face was narrow and gaunt, her mousy brown hair a sparse, unstyled frame around it.

If I wasn’t mistaken, she was ill. Which made this situation potentially even more heartbreaking.

“Hi, Cheyenne.” I knelt beside the dog, whose tail gave a halfhearted wag. I couldn’t help it. I hugged him.

“I have to leave him here, with you. He needs a good home.” As Brooke spoke, her voice grew louder, as if she gained strength from expressing her decision.

“Yes, he does,” I agreed. “Please have a seat.” I motioned toward the chairs at the table near the window. I nearly shuddered, since the last time I’d seen anyone occupy one, it had been Efram. But helping to resolve this situation might cleanse the area of its bad karma—I hoped.

Brooke took the seat I indicated, and Cheyenne sat on the tile floor beside her, looking more alert, as if sensing an ally in me. If so, he was one smart dog.

“So,” I said, “I get it that you want a good home for Cheyenne. What I don’t get is why your home doesn’t qualify.”

What little color there was beneath Brooke’s papery skin drained away as if sucked quickly inside by an invisible vacuum. Her light amber eyes flooded with tears, making mine grow moist in empathy. I waited.

“I love Cheyenne,” she said hoarsely. “I wish I could keep him, but . . . my home is being foreclosed on. I’m not sure where I’m going to live, or
if . . .
” Her voice tapered off, and I realized that the emphasis on her last word was a statement.

She believed she was dying.

“Tell me about it,” I said gently, not sure how I could bear hearing her, but I felt certain she needed to talk.

Her story was probably not unique these days, after the economic crises over the last few years. She had a heart condition, was on medication that helped but the stuff was expensive. Interestingly, she’d worked for a major private investigation firm as an operative—until she became too ill to go out in the field. They’d given her an inside desk job for a while, but as the economy slowed, so had their business. They had recently let her go. When she’d lost her job, she’d also lost her medical insurance, and the combination meant she would additionally lose her home.

Now she was about to lose her beloved dog, too. But, unselfishly, she wanted to give Cheyenne the best possible chance at survival and happiness, no matter what happened to her.

“Where are you living now?” I asked her.

“I’m still in the house for the time being, but the bank has said they won’t extend that beyond another month or so. That’s why I need to make sure Cheyenne is taken care of right away.”

“Got any family who could help?” I had to ask, but anticipated the reply.

“Not really.”

Cheyenne stood and put his head on Brooke’s knee. She bent over and hugged him.

I wanted to hug them both. Fix things for them.

Well, I couldn’t cure Brooke. But I had an idea about how to make things better for them, at least over the short term.

“Okay,” I said briskly, standing. “Here’s what we’ll do. You take Cheyenne home with you for now. As Nina and I told you over the phone, we can help by supplying dog food. The moment the bank says that’s it, that you have to leave, you can bring Cheyenne back. If necessary, we’ll work out a good adoption for him, one where you’ll be able to visit if you want to. But before we get to that point, we’ll see if we can make things better.”

Brooke looked up skeptically. “How?”

“Can’t tell you now,” I replied. “And there are no guarantees. But let me do some checking, see if I can come up with anything so Cheyenne and you can stay together while you’re dealing with your illness. Is it a kind that could be . . .” I stopped. Her prognosis was really not my business.

“Fatal?” she finished. “Potentially, although there are new medications and other options I could try. I’d have a better chance if my insurance company hadn’t dumped me, though.”

“Got it,” I said cheerfully. “We’ll see what we can do. Are you okay to drive Cheyenne and you home?”

“Well, yes,” she said, sitting up fully in her chair. Cheyenne backed away slightly, and for the first time he started really wagging his tail. “But—”

“But you’d braced yourself for going back alone. I get it. Cheyenne doesn’t, though. Are you willing to take a chance on being able to keep him now?”

“Well, yes,” she repeated. “But I don’t see how—”

“Even if I can’t help, you’ll at least have had more time with Cheyenne. Isn’t it worth it to try?”

“Oh, yes!” Brooke bent again to hug her best friend—and then came over to hug me.

I only hoped I wasn’t just blowing smoke around both—all three—of us.

 

 

But the HotRescues benefactor—who also contributed to other worthy causes—was out of town. His secretary said she’d give Dante my message but suspected I wouldn’t hear from him until the next day. He’d decided to confront a problem at a HotPets warehouse in the Midwest himself.

That meant it would be handled quickly, efficiently, and well. It also meant I couldn’t follow through on my idea to help Brooke Pernall right away—and I hated delays, even if I couldn’t control them.
Especially
then.

My idea? Throw money at her. Dante’s money, not mine, since I hadn’t much to spare. But maybe he would lend me his clout to lean on Brooke’s former insurance company. Or—

Hey, a lawyer could do that. I could talk to his lady friend, Kendra Ballantyne. She might have some ideas, too.

I lifted the phone in my office again, but the door from our reception area burst into the room, followed by Nina.

“Lauren, everyone here knows about Efram, and how he acted. They’re worried. Could we talk to them?”

My second in command looked worried, too. Justifiably. Brooke Pernall’s woes had distracted me from my own. HotRescues’ own.

The bank hadn’t kicked Brooke out yet. I didn’t have to fix things for her this instant, if I could at all. But addressing the menace around here couldn’t wait.

“Absolutely,” I told Nina. “Let’s get everyone who’s here together in the meeting room upstairs in twenty minutes.”

“I’m on it.” Nina looked relieved as she left again, pulling the door closed after her.

If only some inspiration would leap into my fragmented thoughts so I could convey genuine optimism to my gang—some way to permanently banish Efram and his threats from HotRescues.

 

 

The main HotRescues building was a solid, attractive two-story structure that Dante had designed to his specifications when he created the shelter.

The upstairs was planned around a conference room. Doors opening onto it led to offices used by staff members like Nina and Mona to meet with potential adopters and decide if they were worthy. And, in Mona’s case, counsel them. There was even a shrink’s couch in her room. I preferred to have my office downstairs in the mainstream of what was going on.

When time for our impromptu meeting arrived, I stayed in our welcome area as the others headed up the stairway near the exit to the shelter grounds. I didn’t count heads, but after a few minutes I followed—not before locking the outer door. Any visitors could ring the doorbell.

By the time I arrived at our meeting, nearly everyone else had, too, massing around the conference table. They’d thoughtfully left a chair at one end for me—a good idea, since I had every intention of presiding over this gathering.

Like our reception room, this one’s walls were decorated with photos of our successes—pets and their new owners. I know I’m prone to anthropomorphism, but yes, even the animals seemed to smile. Why not? They’d each found a new home.