Let's Be Frank (32 page)

Well, they’re not getting
my
stick-dog. Sherlock is mine. I hope things don’t have to get ugly in there. That kid staring at me with his nose pressed against the back window will be just as happy with some beagle-shepherd mix. Sherlock’s the only dog for me.

I decide to ignore the gaping kid and train my eyes on the shelter’s door, the tingling in my stomach reminiscent of the feeling I used to get in the blocks at track meets. Back then, pride and a district or state title were the only things at stake. In contrast, all of my future happiness rests on today’s victory.

Okay, perhaps that’s slightly hyperbolic, but not by much. My world is a lot smaller than it was a few weeks ago. It doesn’t take much to make or break my day anymore.

When the door to the shelter twitches outward as the person on the inside twists the locks and flips the sign from “Closed” to “Open,” I vault from my car like a world-class sprinter. Screw that little kid. I’m nice to kids all week long. It’s my day off. No mercy.

Inside, I ignore the quizzical look from the middle-aged woman behind the counter when I tell her breathlessly, “I’m here to adopt Sherlock,” and nod toward the door that separates us from the holding pens, judging from the barks on the other side.

“Okay… Um…”

Urgency grips my insides when I hear the voices of the family coming closer to the door as they traverse the parking lot. I don’t have time for this lady—Wilma, according to her name tag—to try to figure me out.

“I saw the posting online,” I explain quickly. “And he’s the exact dog I’ve been looking for.”

“Oh, well, we have a lot of dogs—and cats—needing adoptive, loving families—”

“Sherlock will be fine,” I interrupt, almost not caring how rude I’m being. “No need for me to browse.”

Her tight smile softens to a more sincere one as the minivan family enters the shelter, and Johnny Gawker announces, “We wanna get a puppy!”

His mom gently admonishes him to wait his turn, but Wilma turns her attention away from me and says to the boy, “How nice! Do you have a specific dog in mind?” Am I imagining it, or did she put extra emphasis on the word “specific,” like a jab at me?

“Nope!” the toothless kid answers.

“We’ll know it when we see it, though. Right, kiddo?” the dad consults his son.

I force myself to smile at them, hoping they’re in the market for a lap dog.

“Well, why don’t you all follow me, and you can take a look around, find the perfect new friend to take home?” Wilma offers, ushering us through a heavy steel door into a concrete-floored chamber full of chain-link cages. The smell of flea shampoo, dog food, and crap hits me like a wall, but I’m too busy scanning the room of now furiously barking animals to care or react to the smell.

I see my dog right away and stride to his cage. He sniffs my fingers through the metal fencing. “Wilma? Here he is.” I relax when I notice the family has zoomed in on a pug with a propensity for licking. Another volunteer has entered the room and is helping them.

Wilma takes her sweet time joining me. “Hmm… Yes. He’s recently become eligible for adoption.”

“I know. Like I said, I’ve been watching the postings for a while, waiting for the right dog.” I scratch the top of his head with my forefinger. “Aren’t you a handsome guy?” I say to him.

Wilma observes us silently. When I return my attention to her, her jaw juts forward. “Is there a particular reason you want
this
dog? You have a specific… plan… in mind for him?”

I don’t understand her suspicious tone, but I answer her nonetheless. “No. I mean… yeah. I like this breed.”

“Well, you can’t breed him. He’s been neutered.”

“I know that.”

She steps to the cage next to Sherlock’s. “If I might suggest Reba here…”

What does this woman not understand about what I’m telling her?

Since time doesn’t seem to be of the essence anymore (the family hasn’t even glanced at Sherlock), and I’ve been borderline rude so far, I decide to tone down the intensity and humor Wilma, if for no other reason than to stop her suspecting me of having dastardly designs on yellow Labs. I look at the dog to which she’s referring, a squat orange and white thing that can’t even be bothered to rise from her curled-up position near the back of her cage.

“She’s… uh… cute. I think. It’s hard to tell from here.”

Wilma smiles tenderly toward the pooch. “Oh, she’s a sweetie. A Corgi. An expensive breed, you know. And she’s full-blooded. No papers, of course, and she’s been spayed, but I’m sure that’s not an issue.”

“I don’t know much about Corgis,” I admit, stepping back to Sherlock’s cage. He grins up at me, his tongue flopping from the side of his mouth, his eyes twinkling.

“Hey, Buddy,” I murmur. “You’re a fine fella.”

“Corgis are the Queen of England’s favorite breed,” Wilma persists. “Do you have children?”

I shake my head, trying to focus on the fact and not the emotion behind the answer. “No. Sherlock, here, will be my only kid.”

She returns to my side, finally seeming to get the message I’m not interested in Reba. “What about your backyard? Big? Fenced?”

I’m prepared for this, the “interview” portion of the process. I read online that they make sure each adoptee goes to a home environment that matches the breed’s needs.

I nod eagerly. “Yep. Privacy fence. Nice and high. He’s not gettin’ out. And I love to run, so I’ll take him for jogs and—”

“And you’ll have lots of time to devote to a dog? Are you single? Work long hours?”

I wave away her questions. “I’ve installed a doggy door for the days I have to be gone a lot. And I’ll come home on my lunch break.”

“That’s a big doggy door,” she says, nodding toward Sherlock. “Intruders can get through a doggy door big enough for that guy. Reba, on the other hand…”

I sigh and turn away from my new best friend. “Look… I appreciate your help, Wilma, but I already know which dog I want to adopt.”

She wrings her hands, looking down at them. “Yes. You’ve been very clear about that.”

“Then what’s the problem? I’m sure Reba will find a nice Corgi-loving family to take her home and treat her like she’s a member of the Queen’s household. But… I’m no queen.” I blush at how that sounds but resist the urge to joke,
“Despite what some people may think,”
and rush on, “I… Well, not to sound like a sexist jerk, because I’m not, but… I sort of had a manlier dog in mind. That’s why I’ve been waiting for
this
dog.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder at Sherlock.

Glancing mournfully at Reba, she says, “And I respect that, but… we haven’t had any success adopting Reba to anyone… not for long, anyway.”

“She’s been returned?” I ask, adding this to my reasons
not
to take Reba home with me (as if I needed more).

Wilma nods. “Yes. Well, in effect.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I can’t see anything obvious, but… maybe she bites. Antisocial? Her dogged position at the back of her cage supports that hypothesis.

“She’s a runner,” Wilma admits. “Animal control has picked her up three times and brought her here. And the last time we called the owners, they told us to keep her; they couldn’t keep up with her.”

“That’s too bad,” I say. “Now, about Sherlock… What’s the adoption fee?”

“Wait. There’s more.”

I close my eyes and count to three, then open them and smile indulgently at Wilma. What’s another couple of minutes, right? At least then I can pretend I kept an open mind, and she can say she tried her best.

Again, she steps to the front of Reba’s cage and taps the laminated card attached to the door by the latch. “Today’s Reba’s last day.”

I gulp, hoping she doesn’t mean what I think she means. “Last day?”

“Yeah. We can’t keep her any longer. If we don’t find someone to adopt her—someone with a nice yard and a high fence and someone who can keep her on a tight leash—then… Well, we’ll have to put her down.”

Now I look more closely at Reba. She gazes balefully up at me, her chin resting on her paws, as if she knows what we’re talking about. My heart lurches.

Desperately, I gesture to the family walking out with the pug. “Wait! Tell
them
Reba’s story. They’ll take her, I bet.”

“Looks like they’ve already set their hearts on a different dog,” Wilma observes, waving at them and smiling. “Congratulations on your new family member!” she calls cheerfully to them before turning back to me with a somber frown.

I point to Sherlock. “I already have my heart set on a different dog, too. And you knew that up-front. What’s the deal with the hard sell?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I can tell you’re a nice, sensitive guy—”

I snort.

“And you may think Sherlock’s the only dog for you, but he’ll fit in with a hundred families. Reba’s… special. She needs someone special. And I could tell you were that someone as soon as you ran through the door.”

Now I
know
the woman’s crazy, but before I can say, “No,” again, she implores, “Look at her! She’s sorry for being so much trouble, but with the right owner, she’ll be perfect.” Moving closer to me and lowering her voice, although we’re the only two people in the room, she says, “Between you and me, I think the little girls in the family who had her before kept leaving the back gate open and letting Reba out, then blaming the dog.”

“That’s sad, but—”

“It is! Reba was only doing what was natural, exploring.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Listen, Wilma, I think it’s sweet that you’re lobbying so hard for Reba, but she’s not what I had in mind. It sounds like you’re pretty fond of her, though. Why don’t
you
take her home?”

Her face hardens. “She’s
not what you had in mind?
She’s a living creature, not a china pattern.” With a subtle head-bob, her tight curls quiver. “And for your information, I’d take her home in a heartbeat, but I already have three dogs and two cats. It would be irresponsible of me to take on any more pets. But you… you sound like you have plenty of love and room at your place. And you’ve thought through your adoption and will be a wonderful, responsible dog owner.”

I puff out my chest and stand at my full height. “I… I have thought a lot about it. I purposely bought a dog-friendly house with a fenced yard so I could get a dog. But not
that
dog.” I nod at Reba.

“Please, I couldn’t bear it if they had to put her to sleep,” Wilma begs.

“Are you like this with all the animals? How do you work here if you get so attached?”

“It’s not all of the animals; but this one is special. It’s not her fault she’s here. She’s a sweet dog!”

“We’ve established that, but…” I shift from foot to foot. “You have the rest of the day to adopt her out. It’s Saturday; I’m sure it’ll be busy later, and you’ll find someone.”

Her eyes fill. “I don’t think so. We’ve had her three Saturdays now. Everyone wants a Lab. Or a puppy.”

Helplessly, I look back and forth from Wilma to Reba and back. Reba lifts her head and cocks it at me, as if to say, “Please?” Oh, gosh. She
is
really cute when she does that.

I consider taking home both Sherlock and Reba but instantly know it won’t work. Taking care of one dog is going to be enough of a stretch, especially on weekends when I work double shifts at Urgent Care. And I want to do this dog ownership thing right, which is expensive. I can’t afford two dogs.

Like a true glutton for punishment, I study Reba. Her strawberry-blonde fur is thick and shiny. The white ring around her shoulders and chest is bright and contrasts nicely with the rest of her fur. Her dark brown eyes shine, hinting at a playful personality. Suddenly, I get a horrifying flash of her lifeless body on a steel table somewhere cold and sad on the premises.

Toward my shoes, I mutter, “Eff me.”

Wilma grasps my upper arm as if I’ve uttered a romantic marriage proposal. “You’ll take her, won’t you? She’ll be grateful to you forever and love you for it, you’ll see.”

“That hasn’t been my experience,” I blurt but smile into Wilma’s suddenly-dry eyes. “Yes. I guess I’ll take her.”

Before my agreement is even fully out, Wilma unclips a leash from the chain link of Reba’s cage and opens the door just wide enough to snake her arm through. Reba, as if in on the plan all along, jumps to her stumpy legs and waddles within arm’s reach, obediently standing and waiting for the sound of the metal clasp closing on the ring on her collar.

“Let’s get your paperwork filled out and get you on your way,” Wilma suggests brightly, widening the opening to the pen and tugging gently on Reba’s leash to get her moving. She hands the nylon strap to me. “There you go, Dad.”

Automatically, I grasp it. Reba, pulling the leash taut and yanking me forward, cheerfully follows no-nonsense, business-like Wilma. On my way past Sherlock, I give him one final, longing look, all my manly dog fantasies evaporating like fog on a hot, sunny morning. He gives me a parting endorsement bark, as if to reassure me I made the right decision.