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“Now, mind you don’t make any loud noises,” he says as we reach the back of the van. He starts pulling on his beard again. “She shies away from loud noise.”
“And you thought it was a good idea to have kids read to her?” I ask, caught off-guard.
“She likes kids.” He rocks on his feet and puts a hand on the door handle. Then he opens the back, and there she is, in a wire cage much too big for her. A little stuffed toy that’s seen better days is caught between her front legs, which look too short for a dog with such a big head. She’s cowering, her big head near her legs, her wide eyes fixed on us. My chest feels both gooey and broken.
“We think pitbull and corgi,” Dustin comments without being ask. “Don’t ask me how that happened, because I don’t want to know. All I know is those legs can move awful fast for being so short.”
I reach out a hand slowly, but she edges away from me, as if she’s been hurt before and has come to expect it—as if any open hand is a hand that might hit her.
Something inside of me quakes. Then my gaze lands on that stuffed toy.
I lift a quivering finger to point at it. “What’s that?”
“You know,” he says, bemused, “most of our dogs tear through toys. Give ’em one, and it’s gone in five minutes, but she won’t let go of that thing. Brings it everywhere.”
It’s old and tattered, but it’s distinctly… “It’s a hedgehog,” I say in a shaky voice.
“Is it?” he asks, his voice stunned. He pulls out his phone, does some Googling, and then whistles through his teeth. “Well, I’ll be.” He gives the brewery a glance before turning back to me. “She must’ve heard about it from my boss. Jack’s wife. That woman would resort to guerrilla tactics to get a dog adopted.” He says it with admiration.
Maybe he’s right. But my aching conscience insists I can’t take chances with Flower’s life.
“I want her,” I say, even though I’m aware of three things. Thing one: I’m slightly allergic to dogs. Thing two: I can’t have a dog in my apartment until I pay the animal fee, and I don’t have enough money to do that. And if I can’t afford that, do I really have the money to feed and shelter a dog? Thing three: I’m being impulsive again, and it never works out for me.
At the same time…
I know what it’s like to feel alone and abandoned with nothing but a hedgehog, in Flower’s case, and a van, in mine, to hang your hopes on. I can’t let this dog wither away in the shelter. I can’t. And if I bring her home, Izzy will have that Christmas morning look for weeks…
“You really want her?” Dustin asks in wonder.
Yes, no, maybe.
I nod, my heart thumping, feeling a sneeze building. “What do I have to do?”
“Well…” He pauses to scratch his beard. “There’s paperwork you need to fill out, and a fee to be paid.” Another scratch. “But I’ll let the fee slide because you’re our partner.”
At this point, I’ve done nothing other than help them accrue gas fees. I’m already feeling emotional, and tears try to gather in my eyes. I sneeze, then wipe my nose on the sleeve of my coat. I promise myself I’ll clean it later, but the dusty hue of the fabric suggests it’s a lie.
“Thank you, Dustin.”
“Thank you,” he says, sounding a little surprised again. “I didn’t want to say so earlier, because I didn’t want you to feel pressured, but I was beginning to think this little girl would never find a home.”
Maybe I should be worried about whatever behavior traits caused this worry, but resolve has steeled my spine. I’ve decided to do this, and I’m going through with it. Izzy’s going to get her dog, dammit.
“Well, she has a home now,” I say, “and no one’s taking her away from me.”
I’ll just need to keep her hidden from Mrs. Longhorn. And building management, until I raise enough money for that fee.
“Well, all right, then. Now, if you want to take her and send me that paperwork later, that would be just fine. I can give you some food and a few toys, too. What do you say?”
I’d say he’s pretty eager to get rid of Flower. Somehow it only makes me want her more. My nose itches; I wipe it. Another sneeze escapes.
“You allergic to dogs?” Dustin asks with a concerned look.
“No, of course not. It’s this dry cold that does it to me.”
He nods as if I’ve said something sensible.
“Thank you,” I add. “This is great.”
