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Sydney licks Savannah’s hands through the kennel.
“She’ll make a wonderful companion,” the volunteer says.
“Do you know how old she is?” Savannah asks.
“We never have an exact number, but our vet’s best guess for Sydney is about two years old. She’s in great health. She was a trouper through her labor and delivery. Like I said, she was a perfect little mama. Of course, she’s been spayed now that her pups are weaned.”
“I can’t take her away from her puppy,” Savannah says.
“You won’t have to,” I say. “I’d like to adopt the pup.”
“That’s wonderful,” the volunteer says. “Sydney and her pup will live together forever.”
Vannah stands. “Oh, we’re not together. I mean, I’ll be adopting Sydney, and Falcon here, he’ll take the pup. We don’t live together.”
A brick hits my gut. Savannah is right, of course. We’re not together, in the sense of a relationship.
“Oh.” The volunteer’s cheeks redden. “I shouldn’t have made that assumption.”
“Not a problem,” I say, tamping down the crushing feeling.
“Why don’t the two of you come with me and we can get your paperwork started.”
Savannah and I follow the volunteer out of the kennel area and into a small office.
“As you may or may not know, we are a no-kill shelter, so if for any reason you can’t keep your animals, we will take them back and help them get placed into another home.”
“I won’t be returning Sydney,” Savannah says.
“Yeah, I won’t be returning the pup either. I don’t believe in that. Animals are a commitment.”
“That’s a wonderful attitude,” the volunteer says. “I wish more people shared it.” She hands us each a manila file folder. “This is the information on the dogs that you’re adopting. Plus our contract. Our adoption fee is two hundred dollars, and that covers the spaying or neutering. The pup isn’t neutered yet because he’s too young, but when he reaches the age of four months, just bring him back to the shelter and we will neuter him free of charge.”
“Right. I adopted from you guys once. A long time ago.” I look around. Nothing has changed in the office or in the shelter area where the animals are housed. Probably lack of funding.
“Did you?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t volunteer any further information, and I’m glad when she doesn’t ask.
Savannah is reading through the contract, and then she scribbles her signature at the bottom. She grabs her purse. “Will you take a credit card?”
“Absolutely.” She turns her head to me. “And you, sir?”
“Cash.”
I pull out four hundred-dollar bills. “They’re both on me.”
“Oh no,” Savannah says. “This is my dog.”
I hand the cash to the volunteer. “Did I say it wasn’t? I’m happy to do it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t recall anyone ever telling me I had to.”
The volunteer watches us, her gaze darting from one to the other. Finally she clears her throat. “Cash is better for us,” she says, “if that helps you decide.”
Savannah sighs. “Fine. But I’m paying you back,” she says to me.
“Suit yourself.”
Once all the paperwork is dealt with, the volunteer goes to the kennels and returns a few moments later with the dogs.
“What did you say the pup’s name was again?” I ask as I scoop him into my arms.
“Teddy.”
I scratch his soft ear. “I think I’ll change his name.”
“That’s fine. Dogs learn new names quickly.”
“What are you going to name him?” Vannah asks.
He’s a typical pup with expressive droopy eyes, a short muzzle, and an adorable personality. He licks my hand and nibbles on my fingers. “I don’t know yet. I’ll think on it. How about you?”
Savannah strokes Sydney’s head. “I think she looks like a Sydney to me. It’s a shame to separate them.”
“Thanks,” I say to the volunteer. Then as we leave the shelter, “You can bring Sydney over any time to see her pup.”
She flushes. “I didn’t mean…”
“No one is taking your words at anything other than face value, Savannah.”
We’re not together. Her words haunt me, but I can’t fault their accuracy. She deserves better. But I won’t be leaving her alone any time soon.
We get the dogs into the car and head back to Savannah’s place.
“Now I really have to go to the store,” she says. “I need dog food. A bed. Toys.”
“There’s about a week’s worth of dog food in the package that the shelter gave us for each dog,” I say. “That’ll get you through until you can get to the grocery store.”
“Yeah. I’ll do what you asked, Falcon. I’ll wait until tomorrow evening, and I’ll go to the local grocery. I want to give them my business.”
“They’ll appreciate that.”
“What are you going to do—” She gasps.
Teddy—or whatever I will name him—is peeing on Vannah’s carpet.
“Oh.” I pick him up and whisk him outside the front door. “Bad dog. You do that outside.”
Now I see why Vannah didn’t want a puppy.
But this is what puppies do. They poop and pee inside until they learn otherwise. I’ve raised many of them.
