Chapter 2: Dogs are better than people
Aren't dogs supposed to be good judges of people?
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Blurb:
When ultra-competitive, high achieving Ava Barratt and Greyson Bertram meet, it’s not love at first sight. Sure, they’re both on the cross country team, excel in multiple honors classes, and love the rescued dogs at the local animal shelter where they both volunteer. But Greyson thinks Ava’s charm is fake; Ava thinks Greyson’s jokes are exasperating. Then the shelter falls into dire financial straits. Now they must work together to raise the funds to save the shelter before the crotchety landlord, Ava’s grandfather, forecloses on the property.
In chapter 1, Ava meets a cute boy at the grocery store, but he’s unaccountably annoying as heck.
Greyson
After I unload the groceries at home, I run to the animal shelter. It’s only 2.7 miles from our new house, and my body craves a run. Demands it.
Plus, it’s the day before my junior year starts. I might as well get in some animal bonding time while I can. At least they have an excuse for not telling me their names. Unlike a certain Ava Barratt. I sprint up the hill.
Of course I knew who Ava was, Miss Captain-President-Perfect Charmer, even before school starts. The entire school knows her, according to Noah, fellow cross country teammate and my new source of information. Everyone loves her, Noah claimed. She’s sweet, she smart, she makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room when you’re talking to her.
Could’ve fooled me.
I can hear my mom saying, be charitable, Greyson.
Fine. Maybe she was having an off day. Maybe she really does have a phobia over bananas and it’s connected with some childhood trauma and now she needs therapy or something.
Or maybe she’s a fake.
Animals aren’t fakers. Sweaty but with a pleasant endorphin buzz from the run, I walk in Happy Animal Rescue Shelter, where I volunteered this summer, and despite how clean and bright and cheerful the appearance is, there’s still the smell the aroma of the dozens of rescue dogs waiting for someone to adopt them. My sweaty self will fit right in.
LeNora greets me. Before I can even ask what to do, she says, “Praise the Lord, more help is here. Please help muck out the stalls and go play with some of them.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute her.
“Not bad,” she says, gesturing at my salute. “You’re still angling your hand the wrong way.”
I adjust it. “Better?”
She purses her lips. “Slightly. Well, get to stall mucking, Greyson. It’ll build your muscles.” She eyes my biceps, which really aren’t that skinny. I resist the urge to flex.
I grab my supplies. “Are the other volunteers no shows?”
“The one on the schedule’s running late. Larry and I took care of some things this morning, but he needs some help, and Doc’s in the back.” She tips her head toward the door for the vet clinic. “I’ve got two families coming in for possible adoptions.”
“Awesome.”
“Plus paying the bills. Rent’s gone up again.”
“Not awesome.”
I start helping Larry with transferring dogs from one side of the cage to another, cleaning up the inevitable messes, and work my way down the row. Larry’s a silent, gruff old guy who I swear talks more to the dogs than to his fellow humans. He greets me with a curt nod. The dogs get cooing and patting and “aren’t you a good girl?” remarks.
The German Shepherd eyes me with dignified disdain. The part golden retriever part bulldog licks my face. The last cage is empty. My heart jumps. “Hey, Larry, did Ozzy get adopted?” I cross my fingers.
“Nope. Back in Doc’s office.” He turns back to a wiener dog who races around his feet.
My heart sinks. Ozzy’s the oldest dog here. He’s also been here the longest, well over a year. According to LeNora, he used to perk up whenever families or couples or individuals came to look for a dog to adopt. But he’s too old, too needy, and even though Doc’s done his best, no one wants to take on the expenses of a broken-down, three-legged mutt who might only last a few months.
At some point, hope died on his furry face. Now he no longer raises his head when someone passes his cage. No longer barks. No longer goes to the edge of his cage and sticks out his snout and sniffs hands. If I could, I’d take him home in a heartbeat. But realistically, we’ve already got two hyper-active rescue puppies, and their energy would bother Ozzy. Heart in my throat, I run to the back and find LeNora. “Is Ozzy okay? He’s not…”
It’s a no-kill shelter. But the reality is that sometimes, the dogs are too sick and in obvious pain and there’s nothing anyone can do. It’s more merciful to euthanize than to extend their suffering.
Everyone cries when we have to put down a dog. We gather around and because LeNorah is big on God and fully convinced that dogs go to heaven, she prays and thanks God for this dog’s life here and then we stay and watch. Sometimes, if it doesn’t hurt the dog too much, she lays a hand gently on the dog’s head and holds it there until it’s done. Everyone cries.
Everyone except me. I don’t cry. I clench my fists. Later, I go for a long run, pounding those trails, extra grueling workouts because somehow, we failed. I failed. We couldn’t protect that dog from pain and sickness and death. It pisses me off.
Now, this time, it might be Ozzy.
LeNorah shakes her head. “Doc’s doing a checkup.”
My heart returns to its normal rhythm. “Oh, good.” Then, not bothering to ask permission, I duck into the vet clinic and find Doc listening to Ozzy’s heartbeat. “You’re filthy, Greyson,” she says, slinging the stethoscope around her neck and feeling the white-haired belly.
“Yeah, sorry, wanted to see Ozzy. How are you, buddy?” I pat his head.
She sighs. “As okay as he’ll ever be. Would you want to take him back to his kennel? Or better, try to get him outside and play a little.”
I pull Ozzy into my arms. He’s warm and soft and fragile, and he greets me with a small face lick. I walk him to our play area.
We all do our best to play with the dogs. Our play area is decent for a non-profit that’s run on a shoestring budget, but it’s not nearly enough. Larry’s encouraging the ultra-yappy Chihuahua to play fetch.
I set Ozzy down gently on a grassy area furthest from the other dogs. The noise and energy of the other dogs stresses him, I think, and he slinks back. I stroke his back. “It’s okay,” I say. “You’re okay.”
He rests his head on the ground. I pick him up again and cuddle with him, rock him back and forth, trying to do everything I can to help this dog live a happier life. To feel protected. To feel loved.
I hear a familiar voice and look up.
Ava.
She’s cheering a wiener dog as it runs up a ramp as fast as its short legs can waddle.
It clicks. LeNora has mentioned another teenage volunteer before, but somehow our schedules have never overlapped. Until now.
She claps for the wiener dog, who’s managed to reach the top of the ramp. “Hills are good,” she cheers. “C’mon, it’s all downhill from here.” The wiener dog races down the ramp and yaps at her. “Good girl,” she coos.
Her sweet expression as she pets the dog makes my stomach flip. It’s unpleasant, like Ava’s working her famous charm on me without even realizing that I’m here and sinking her claws in me. Squaring my shoulders, I resolve not to ever, ever let Ava Barratt get to me. I will be my own self. Besides, it’s creepy to watch someone without them knowing.
I walk over, Ozzy lying in my arms. And because I’m a brilliant, witty conversationalist, I say, “Uh, hey, Ava.”
Recognition flashes on her face. “Oh, hi.” Something else crosses her face. Irritation? Frustration?
“Guess you know Ozzy, right?”
Her face softens as she looks into Ozzy’s eyes. “Hello there, sweetie,” she coos. “Are you having fun playing outside with—?”
The dog licks Ava’s hand, then he leans forward as she strokes his head. Traitor. Dogs are supposed to be good judges of character, but Ozzy is slacking on his game here. I make her wait until I say, “Greyson.”
“I’m Ava.”
“I know. Cross country practices.”
“Oh.” The mask of pleasantness slips from her face, just for a second, as if she’s thrown off her game somehow, before she recovers. “How long have you volunteered here?” she asks casually, crouching to stroke a rather neurotic poodle.
“A few months.”
“Same here.”
“Guess our schedules never overlapped.” I’m being a genius at small talk right now, but a pretty girl holding a puppy unnerves me. The girl part, not the dog part. Dogs may not talk, but they’re fairly straightforward in the communication department: feed me, play with me, hold me, clean me, feed me some more. Girls are complicated.
“Yeah.” Suddenly she snaps, “Why didn’t you tell me that you had plastic gloves all along?” Ozzy cocks his head as if this version of Ava is a stranger.
So that’s what this is about. “What fun would that have been?” The look on her face when she’d realized that she’d been conned into picking up raw chicken: priceless. From what I’ve heard, she’s not the type to let people get the better of her. But I’m not, either.
She crosses her arms. “Life isn’t all fun and games.”
“I know. But can’t you take a joke?”
“Yes,” she snaps. Weiner dog at her feet yaps at her.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Ozzy looks up at me with his bleak, hopeless look, as if my anger over I-don’t-know-what stresses him. I exhale slowly, calm myself, will my heartbeat to return to its normal pace. But before I can make any offer of peace, Ava walks off and disappears inside.
“Fine, be that way,” I mutter. Ozzy licks my chin in consolation.
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