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That being said, though, my job was kind of, you know, mindless. It didn’t require a lot of mental gymnastics to do it since I’d been working at the same place since I was a teenager.
So for seven-ish hours a day, my mind was mostly free to think about all the sweet faces behind the padlocked cages.
I was even free enough, on occasion, to research how to open a padlock. Which, incredibly, involved a can of that spray stuff you use to clean your keyboard shaken and turned upside down, then blown into a lock, as well as a hammer or something blunt to hit the lock open with after the mechanism was frozen.
It was surprisingly easy.
And made me lose all faith in the padlocks I had on my doors at home.
So much so that I went ahead and installed chain locks and those little alarm things that you can put on your doors.
Did I also buy some cans of condensed air and a hammer?
Fine.
Yes.
Yes, I did.
I may have also bought myself a couple of dog hiking backpacks and slip leads.
Because, well, that hot biker dude was right. I wasn’t strong enough to carry multiple dogs in my arms.
It wasn’t like I was excited by the prospect, or considering a life of crime or anything.
I just couldn’t get those dogs’ faces out of my head.
Logically, I knew a few of them were already gone. But there were others still. And they were savable.
Judging by the fact that I had yet to hear about a raid on the place, local law enforcement and humane societies hadn’t responded to my pleas that they save those dogs.
So it was me.
Or nobody.
And it couldn’t be nobody.
So, yeah, I washed my burglar outfit—you know, because of all the sweat—and I set out my bags and leashes and condensed air and hammer.
After all of that, I waited.
During that wait time, at least I knew the poor dogs were safe, albeit miserable, in their tiny cages.
I also tweaked my plan.
Meaning, despite knowing it was riskier, parking my car a little closer. The faster I could get the dogs in my car and peel away, the better.
I would also go in a little bit later to hopefully avoid running into anyone.
From there, I wasn’t entirely sure.
I would take the dogs to safety, of course. Get them a good meal. Patch them up as needed. Give them some snuggles if they would let me.
After that, though, how was I going to get them to new homes? They would need to be evaluated by a professional.
I guess I could take them to the shelter I’d called about the ring in the first place and tell them I’d managed to get a few of the dogs to safety. I very much doubted they would turn me in for it. And then I would be sure that they got the right kind of rehabilitation.
As much as I loved animals and did work with fosters, I was no dog trainer.
