“Challenging?” I thought about my encounter with Orion. He had tried to scare me, just like Nick had. He’d even charged me. “You mean, they’re vicious?” I said.
“No,” Kathy said. “Not vicious.”
“Have any of them attacked people?” I said.
She looked directly at me.“Bitten, yes.Attacked, no.”
I wasn’t sure I saw the difference.
“Some dogs are really aggressive,” Kathy said. “You’ve probably read about dog attacks in the newspaper from time to time—a dog mauls a child or attacks and kills another dog. Sometimes we get animals like that. Sometimes we have to put them down.”
“But these dogs aren’t like that?”
She shook her head again.
“The dogs in the RAD program have behavior problems that have made them unsuitable for adoption,” she said. “Most of them were never trained properly. Their owners may have disciplined them by hitting them with a rolled-up newspaper or some other object.”
The very idea seemed to exasperate her. “That’s usually counterproductive. Instead of teaching the dog to behave, it teaches the dog that a hand coming toward it means punishment. It sees a hand reach out, and it bites. The dog owner may see that as an attack, but to the dog, it’s self-defense. We have one dog in the program that was bought as a puppy. The owner kept the dog in the house when it was little and cute but never bothered to train it properly. Because the dog was never trained, when it got bigger, it started jumping up on people and making a nuisance of itself—and ended up getting punished by the owner. Finally, the owner chained it out in his backyard. The dog spent two years out there. It was never let off the chain and never let inside.
“Dogs are pack animals,” she said. “They’re very social. They need to be around other creatures—dogs, human beings, it doesn’t matter. Imagine how you’d be if you were chained out in a yard all by yourself, winter and summer, night and day, for two years. Someone finally reported the owner. We seized the dog. If we can rehabilitate him, he has a chance to be adopted. If we can’t . . . ” She sighed. “Do you know what the leading cause of death is for dogs?”
The first thing that came to mind was getting hit by a car. But I guessed that probably wasn’t the answer she was looking for. I shook my head.
“The leading cause of death for dogs is unwelcome behavior,” Kathy said.
It took me a moment to digest this. “You mean, because the dog ends up being put down?”
She nodded. “That’s what we’re trying to avoid with the RAD program,” she said. “It’s kind of a last chance program for these dogs. The kids each take responsibility for a dog. It’s up to them to work with the dogs to modify their behavior. At the same time, the program helps the kids. They learn that they can’t get the behavior they want by yelling at their dogs or trying to bully them. They have to stay calm. They have to be patient. By the end of the program, the kids have learned a lot about how to control their own anger. And if we’re lucky, most of the dogs are ready for adoption.”
“Most?” I said.
“With consistent training and lots of positive reinforcement, most dogs succeed,” she said.
“And the ones that don’t?”
“If we can’t find a home for an animal, well, eventually we run out of options.”
Oh. I glanced out the window again. Nick and the others, together with their dogs, were all heading back across the field toward a man and a woman. I had seen the man before—he was the stocky guy with the brush-cut hair who had called to Nick the first day I was at the shelter. I didn’t recognize the woman.
. . .
For my break that afternoon I took a bottle of juice and a book from my bag, and went to sit at the picnic table to read. I had only been outside for a couple of minutes when the kids from the RAD program spilled out onto the field near the parking lot for their break. It wasn’t long before a Frisbee sailed through the air. One of the RAD participants raised his arm up, up, up and caught it. Then his arm arced back and he released the Frisbee again. It soared across the field to another RAD participant, who leaped clear off the ground to make the catch.
Nick was standing closest to the wing where the animals were kept. Someone threw the Frisbee in his direction. Nick moved toward it, looking up, gauging its distance. But the Frisbee was too close and still too high. Nick reversed direction, running backward now, looking up, his eyes focused on the blue disc.
As Nick ran backward, Mr. Schuster appeared around the side of the animal building leading a small dog on a leash. He was headed for the door to go inside. His attention was focused on the dog, which was balking. Mr. Schuster bent down to say something to the dog or to coax it along. I don’t think he saw Nick. I know Nick didn’t see Mr. Schuster. The rest of the RAD guys did, though. They saw what I saw—Nick running backward, his gaze directed up at the Frisbee, his hand swinging up now, moving to make a grab for it. But they all just stood there, watching, as the gap between Nick and Mr. Schuster got smaller and smaller until . . .
“Mr. Schuster!” I shouted. “Mr. Schuster, look out!”
Mr. Schuster turned to see Nick bearing down on him, but it was too late. Nick slammed into him. Mr. Schuster flew sideways. The little dog scrambled out of the way and narrowly missed being squashed when Mr. Schuster hit the ground. Nick lost his balance on impact and fell on top of the old man. Everyone, including me, ran toward them.
Nick had sprung to his feet by the time I reached Mr. Schuster. He was leaning over the old man, his hand outstretched. Mr. Schuster struggled into a sitting position. His face was pale. He slapped Nick’s hand away.
“Thug,” he said.
Nick’s face clouded.
The door to the animal building opened, and Kathy came out. She took in the situation. “What happened?” she said to the RAD guys.
“He fell,” one of them said.
“Fell?” Mr. Schuster spluttered. He was rubbing one shoulder. “That young hooligan knocked me off my feet and threw himself on top of me,” he said. He glared at Nick. “You should keep those kids on a leash!”
“Hey!” Nick said. His eyes blazed. He started toward the old man. One of the other RAD guys grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.
“It’s not worth it,” the guy said.
“It was an accident,” Nick said.
“There are no such things as accidents,” Mr. Schuster said. “There are only preventable injuries. If you’d been watching where you were going, it never would have happened.”
“Yeah, well—” Nick began. Kathy looked at him, her brown eyes signaling a warning. Nick shut his mouth and kicked the Frisbee, which had landed near his feet. It scudded across the grass.
Kathy turned back to Mr. Schuster. “Let me help you up,” she said.
Mr. Schuster didn’t push her away as he had pushed away Nick. Kathy strained with the effort of hoisting the old man to his feet. I rushed forward to help.
“Are you all right, Mort?” Kathy said.“Are you hurt?”
Mr. Schuster leaned heavily on us. He seemed to be dragging one leg.
“Let’s help him to the picnic table,” Kathy said to me. “You can catch your breath there, okay, Mort?”
The old man grunted. “The dog,” he said.
I glanced back over my shoulder at the little dog Mr. Schuster had been walking. The poor thing was cowering near a bush.
“Dougie,” Kathy said to one of the RAD participants. “Take the dog inside.”
A hulking guy with a skull tattooed on his left forearm picked up the leash and yanked on it.
“Gently, for Pete’s sake,” Mr. Schuster said. “That’s an animal, not a wagon.”
Dougie shot a sour look at Mr. Schuster. Then he looked down at the dog. “Come on,” he said to the dog, guiding it more gently now.
Mr. Schuster limped all the way to the picnic table. I don’t think he would have made it if we hadn’t been helping him. By the time he dropped down onto the bench, he
was breathing heavily.
“Do you want me to run you over to the hospital?” Kathy said. “Maybe it would be a good idea to have a doctor take a look at you.”
“Maybe you should run those troublemakers to the county lockup,” Mr. Schuster said.
Kathy’s lips tightened. Out in the field, Nick’s arms were flying in all directions as he talked to the rest of the RAD participants. He looked upset. The door to the animal wing opened again, and the man with the brush-cut hair came out with Dougie. He walked directly to Nick, whose hands flew around even more wildly while he presumably explained what had happened. The man with the brush-cut hair, who reminded me of a drill sergeant in a war movie, said something. I saw Nick shake his head—no, no, no. Then the man said something that made Nick go rigid. The rest of the guys, who had been standing around listening, pressed in a little closer. Nick shook his head again. He seemed more subdued now. The man said something else.
Finally, Nick wheeled away from the group and started across the field. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. The man with the brush-cut hair followed a few paces behind.
Nick came to a stop in front of the picnic table. He looked down at Mr. Schuster, who was massaging the leg that had been dragging. Mr. Schuster glowered at him.
“I’m sorry,” Nick said. But he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded resentful. “I didn’t see you. I hope you’re okay.”
“No thanks to you,” Mr. Schuster said.
I saw anger rise in Nick the way mercury rises in a thermometer on a hot day. The man with the brush-cut hair laid a hand on Nick’s arm.
“Back to the group, D’Angelo,” he said. “Now.”
Nick spun around and scowled at the man. He didn’t say anything. After a moment, he stalked back across the field to the rest of the group.
“It really was an accident, Mr. Schuster,” I said.
“Punk kid,” Mr. Schuster muttered.“Did you hear him? He sounded like he was going to choke on that apology.”
He was right. Nick had sounded anything but apologetic. If I had knocked Mr. Schuster over, I couldn’t have apologized fast enough. But then, if I had knocked Mr. Schuster over, he wouldn’t have treated me the way he’d treated Nick. I glanced across the field and saw a sullen-faced Nick filing back inside with the rest of the RAD guys.
Iwas in my office the following Monday, checking and double-checking names and addresses, when I heard someone yelling outside. I looked out the window and saw Kathy standing beside her little red Firefly, which she had pulled up to the back entrance of the office wing. The trunk of the car was open, and she was waving to the man with the brush-cut hair. I’d learned that his name was Ed Jarvis. He was the youth counselor responsible for the kids in the RAD program. The RAD kids were out in the field with their dogs. The first thing they did every day when they arrived at the shelter was to take their dogs outside for ten minutes before they reported to their training sessions.
Mr. Jarvis walked over to Kathy’s car, and he and Kathy exchanged words. Then he called out to the boys. Nick and two of his friends handed their dogs’ leashes to the other RAD participants and jogged over to join Kathy and Mr. Jarvis. Mr. Jarvis spoke to them. Nick and the other two boys reached into the trunk of Kathy’s car. Each hoisted out a cardboard box. I was baffled by the expressions on their faces. The boxes weren’t very big, but all three boys seemed to be struggling with them. A few moments later, all three filed through the back door and carried their loads into the office directly across from mine.
“You can just set them down here,” Kathy said before poking her head into my office. “Why don’t you take a break from that for a few minutes, Robyn? I could use your help over here.”
I followed her into the office across the hall.
Thud, thud, thud went the boxes as the three boys dropped them onto the desk.
“Man, what’s in these, anyway?” one of them asked. “Lead?”
“Money,” Kathy said.
“Must be a lot of money,” the other boy said.
“It’s mostly coins,” Kathy said. “Dimes, nickels, quarters. But there are bills too. Fives, tens, twenties.”
The first boy stared at the boxes as if he were trying to see through the cardboard. The second boy whistled softly.
“How much do you think is in there?” the first boy said.
“I’ll let you know after it’s been counted, Antoine,” Kathy said.
“Want some help with that?” Antoine said. He looked hungrily at the boxes.
“Yeah, we’ll count it for you,” the other boy said. He sounded as eager as Antoine.
Of the three of them, only Nick didn’t seem interested. The boxes might as well have been cement blocks as far as he was concerned.
Kathy laughed. “Thanks, but I think I can handle it,” she said. “Besides, you guys are going to be late for class if you don’t get a move on, and you know how Ed feels about tardiness.”
Antoine and the other boy grumbled. Nick nudged Antoine, and the three of them trooped out of the office. Kathy grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the tape that sealed the boxes. All three were crammed with money. Just as Kathy had said, most of it was coins. But not all of it. There were plenty of bills—fives, ten, and twenties—peeking out from among the coins.
“It looks like someone just dumped everything in there,” I said.
“That’s exactly what happened,” Kathy said. “We did campaigns at a couple of malls over the weekend—displays on animal cruelty, pictures of the animals we have for adoption, that kind of thing. We do mall displays at least once a month, when we can get enough volunteers together to set up and to stay to answer questions. We always have a container near the display to collect donations. They’re big plastic balls, like the kind you see people using to collect donations around Christmas. People drop in their spare change. Some people are more generous and put in five or ten or even twenty dollars. At the end of the day, the containers get emptied into those reinforced boxes. I usually pick them up from the volunteer in charge on my way in on Monday.” She looked down at the three boxes. “Now comes the fun part.”
“Fun part?”
“I have some volunteers coming in later to roll the coins. We’ll count it all then. But it would be nice to have things organized for them. Would you mind sorting out the coins, Robyn?”
“No problem,” I said.
Kathy left me to the task. A moment later, I heard her voice in the hallway just outside the office door.
“Nick, what are you still doing here?” she said.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Nick said.
“Well, it’ll have to wait. You’re already late. Now scoot!”
I pushed two of the boxes to the far end of the desk—it was like trying to shift a pile of bricks. Then I scooped handfuls of coins out of the third box until the box was light enough to tip out. I started by picking out all the paper money—there was even one fifty-dollar bill—and stacking it in piles, which I set at the back of the desk. Next, I sorted the coins. By the time I’d finished, I had a mound of each type of coin.
I emptied the second box onto the desk and went through the same process. The mounds grew into mountains. The stacks of paper money got higher too.
I had almost finished with the third box when I heard a shout—a scream?—from outside. Kathy thundered down the hallway past the office where I was working. I scurried across the hall to my own office and looked out the window.
Something was going on in the field outside. Kids, adults, and dogs were milling around, but I couldn’t see what all the excitement was about. Then I heard another shout, loud and urgent. Someone banged on my window—Kathy, red-faced from running in the afternoon heat.
“911,” she shouted. “Call 911. It’s Mr. Schuster. Tell them he’s breathing, but he’s unconscious. He doesn’t respond to my voice.”
Unconscious?
I scrabbled for the phone and punched in the numbers. I was surprised at how calm
my voice sounded while I told the 911 operator where I was calling from and what I was calling about. I told the operator Mr. Schuster’s approximate age and repeated what Kathy had told me. Then I repeated the address of the shelter, reading it off the shelter calendar that hung on the wall near my computer. The whole time I was thinking, Hang on, Mr. Schuster.
After I hung up, I opened my window and called to let Kathy know that help was on the way. She nodded grimly. I was closing the window again when I heard a noise in the hall behind me. I started to turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone darting out of the office across the hall. At least, I thought that’s what I saw. I wasn’t positive. Probably a staff member, I thought. I turned to look out the window again. Then I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to find out how Mr. Schuster was.
I stepped out of my office, intending to go directly outside. Then—I’m not sure what made me do it—I glanced into the office where I had been sorting the money. The piles of coins looked more or less as I had left them, but the stacks of bills didn’t. They had been knocked over. But what had scattered them?
Or who?
All the office doors were equipped with locks. You pressed a button on the inside door knob, pulled the door closed, and it locked automatically. You needed a key to open it again. I made sure to lock the money room. Then I went outside. I heard a siren in the distance—the 911-response unit. Nick and Antoine were standing just outside the building. But whereas everyone else was clustered on the field, surrounding Mr. Schuster, Nick and Antoine were just outside the back door, far away from the crowd. Antoine looked directly at me when I stepped out into the hot afternoon. His expression was not friendly. Nick looked at me too, but only for a moment, before ducking his head and turning away from me, all in one fluid motion. The two of them strode away across the lawn.
“Hey,” I called to them. But the shrill of the siren drowned out my voice. An ambulance drove right out onto the field. Nick and Antoine disappeared behind it. By the time I’d reached it, both boys had joined the rest of their group, and Mr. Jarvis was leading them off the field.
Last Chance Page 5