Beaglemania

by Linda O. Johnston

  I passed the middle building, on my right, which housed our toy dogs, most rescued cats, and other smaller animals.

  As I reached the turn toward the next row of kennels, I saw Si Rogan and Angie Shayde come through the back entrance, near the end of the storage building. “Hi,” I greeted them both.

  “Hi, back, Internet star.” Si grinned as I rolled my eyes.

  “That’s so three days ago,” I countered.

  Si was an animal behaviorist who helped to retrain our most energetic or belligerent residents to make them easier to adopt. Around my age, and cute in an aging boyish kind of way, he was a nice guy who’d worked here part-time since we’d opened HotRescues. I’d gleaned by his attentiveness now and then that he wanted to get to know me better, but I’d gently discouraged him.

  “But it’s still so adorable.” Angie was also smiling. A new veterinary technician who had only recently started working here, she had a classic oval face that looked almost cherubic, and short, curly hair. I was certain that she put all the animals she treated at ease with her warm attitude, too.

  “Would have been cuter if the circumstances had been different,” I reminded her.

  Her expression clouded. “That’s for sure.”

  They both headed for the center building as I continued my stroll. I glanced at my watch. Time to return to my office to see if the woman who’d talked about leaving her dog here showed up around when she’d said she would.

  I soon sat at my desk again and made myself begin plowing through files but kept checking the clock. When 10:10 showed, I heard a noise in the outer area. Looked like, this time, she had decided to keep her appointment. I sighed for her dog and turned my expression into a smile of dispirited compassion before rising to join them.

  “What are you doing here?” I heard Nina’s voice raised from beyond my half-closed door.

  “I’m back again to help out.” Or at least that’s what I thought I heard. The voice was muffled, yet unpleasantly familiar. No more ghost of a smile on my face, only anger. I burst out of my office.

  Efram Kiley stood there, leaning over the reception counter with a grin that appeared menacing in its innocence. He wore jeans and a HotRescues T-shirt that looked similar to my outfit that day—not prison garb. But he’d just been arrested three days ago. What was he doing out of jail?

  What was he doing here?

  He turned to look at me. Something unsettling passed across his face—rage? Hatred?

  Or maybe nothing at all. It could have been my imagination, since it wasn’t there when he aimed his unwelcome grin at me. “Hi, Lauren. I hope we can get past that misunderstanding the other day. Honestly, I was at that puppy mill to help.”

  “Help the puppy mill owners?” I goaded. “I didn’t have any sense that you were helping the dogs.”

  His eyes turned sorrowful and pained, as if I’d unexpectedly grown cat claws and drawn them across his face. Real emotion? I doubted it. Especially not after the way he had grabbed me during the rescue. Attacked me, until Matt Kingston took him into custody.

  “Like I said, it was a misunderstanding. But now I have to prove it in court. They arrested me.” He sounded genuinely baffled, but I knew how skilled an actor the guy was. “I’m out on bail. Had to hire another lawyer, can you believe it?”

  “Yes, I can. And I think you’d better go talk to your lawyer. Or at least get out of here. You’re not welcome any longer.” I moved closer, intending to force him to back off. I didn’t want him here. His presence reminded me of those poor, suffering puppies and dogs in those horrible, cramped conditions. Not to mention the pups rescued from the storm drain.

  When he didn’t move, I glanced at Nina, who sat behind the desk, pale and clearly upset. “Please go call 911,” I told her.

  “But I don’t want to leave you . . .” She glanced at Efram.

  I didn’t especially crave being alone with him, either, but I wanted her away from this volatile man. “Go,” I insisted. Nina darted past us into my office.

  I was concerned, sure, but at least Efram and I faced off in a relatively public place. The woman wanting to leave her dog was due any minute. Volunteers and employees of HotRescues always signed in here, in the main reception area. I had nothing to worry about. Besides, he abused vulnerable animals that were smaller than him and couldn’t fight back. His grabbing me before didn’t really mean he’d hurt people.

  I hoped.

  As we stood there, Dr. Mona Harvey walked in. Short, professionally clad in a shirtwaist, she was our esteemed staff psychologist and part-time adoption counselor. “Hi, Lauren. Efram.” She glanced at the latter shrewdly and inquisitively but didn’t ask why he was there. Instead, she signed the sheet on the desk and continued through, obviously reluctant to interrupt.

  I nearly asked her to stay, but what good would that do? Besides, the cops would be here soon, if Nina had called as I’d requested. And I was sure she had.

  Efram didn’t leave, but the steam of his anger appeared to be cooling. “Lauren, can we talk?” His voice held no menace now. He actually looked exhausted, and worried. Was this change of attitude for real?

  I didn’t believe it. “No,” I said. “Please leave.”

  Instead, he turned and planted himself on a chair at the side of the elongated table for visitors, where people interested in pet adoption were interviewed and filled out forms. It was located under the window that opened to the street. “Please, Lauren. Sit down.”

  I ignored his request, sharpening the intensity of my glare.

  He leaned forward and clasped his large hands between his knees. “I want things the way they were before. I was learning how to really take care of pets, you know that. I love animals. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them, especially now.”

  “I’m not the judge of that,” I responded evenly. I could act a role, too, if I needed to. And right now, displaying any of the anger that seethed inside me wouldn’t boot him out of here. “I’m not the one who arrested you. But I did see you there at that puppy mill. And someone threw those poor little beagles down the storm drain.”

  “Not me!” he shot back, half standing. I tried to keep my expression indifferent, but he scared me.

  I could admit that to myself, but no way would I admit it to him.

  Matt Kingston wasn’t here to pull Efram away if he attacked. Neither was anyone else. Even if Mona had stayed, I doubted she’d be able to do more than attempt, in her shrink’s way—most likely unsuccessfully—to get this obviously upset man to chill out.

  “Maybe not.” I kept my voice neutral as I glanced at my watch. “I’m expecting someone any moment who’s supposed to bring in a dog. Really, Efram, leave. Now.”

  His face became a mask of annoyance that he bit back as fast as a Jack Russell terrier chases a ball. “Soon,” he said. “Right now, I want to visit the animals.” He rose suddenly and darted past me.

  By the time I caught up, he’d opened the gate into our shelter area. Albert, a gray miniature poodle mix in the first enclosure on the right, saw us and started barking, which turned the entire locale into a cacophony of dogginess. Despite how I usually discouraged that kind of noise, I wanted to thank Albert for starting the ruckus this time. Instead, I said to Efram, “You’ve seen the animals. Now, get out of here, Efram.”

  Auspiciously, Pete Engersol came out of our center building just then with a leash in his hands. An energetic senior citizen, he was one of the all-around assistants who cleaned enclosures, fed animals, and did whatever not-too-physical labor was required. “Hi, Lauren and Efram,” he called over the remaining barks. I waved, glad to see someone else around but wishing it was some big, burly, younger guy acting as my Superman. Or anyone with handcuffs and authority to arrest Efram for trespassing.

  Too bad Matt Kingston wasn’t around. I’d have to invite him for a visit here one day soon.

  As Pete headed for the rear of the shelter area, Efram stood there without answering me, his arms crossed, clearly in
tending to hang out here longer no matter what I said.

  “Can I walk a few of the dogs today?” he asked. “Like I said, I want things to go back to normal.”

  “That’s impossible.” Keeping my voice calm was becoming more of an effort. “You’re not welcome even to be here, let alone to get any closer to the animals. Get out, Efram.” This was getting damned repetitious, for all the good it did. I felt ineffectual, like a Chihuahua yapping at a hungry coyote, and I hated the feeling. Even worse, my fear, rational or not, was elevating as if I was one of those small dogs facing a skulking predator.

  “I told you I didn’t do anything wrong.” Efram’s voice was suddenly raised as if to combat the now nearly nonexistent ruckus from the nearby dogs. His anger seemed barely in check, and I glanced around, glad to see a couple of pit bull mixes nearby that, if necessary, I could let loose. These two were sweethearts, but with the breed’s reputation of violence, they might scare Efram into backing off.

  Or not, since he seemed to be gearing up to start his own reputation of violence.

  “That may be,” I said, forcing my voice to sound more angry than afraid—even though the two emotions vied for priority. “But I couldn’t help watching the news over the past few days. The neighbor who claims to have called in the complaint to Animal Services about the puppy mill in the first place has said in interviews that she knows the owners, the Shaheens, and that she saw someone else throwing the puppies into the storm drain. Someone in shadows, whose description could be yours. The Shaheens have been interviewed, too. They’re not saying much, but they seem pretty upset that someone—not them, though they haven’t identified the culprit to the media—dared to throw pups into the drain, like they were trash, not beloved animals.”

  Strange, that the Shaheens seemed to give a damn about the mistreated offspring they’d bred into the world—even if it might only be because they saw dollar signs floating in the storm drain instead of puppies.

  “Not me. I want the money you and Dante promised me, Lauren, and I’m willing to work for it.”

  Ah. This had to be the crux of his demands, his real reason for coming here. “I’ll talk to Dante about it again,” I responded civilly, although I already knew the answer—the same one I’d gladly hurl into Efram’s face now if he weren’t so menacing. Including a demand that he pay back all the money he hadn’t really earned. But that could come later, when I wasn’t alone with this vile man. “I really think you’d better leave now, though, till all this is resolved.”

  I turned and started walking back toward the entrance gate, my hand outstretched in invitation to Efram to go through it—permanently.

  He grabbed my arm and twisted it. “No way, bitch. I want my money.”

  Ignoring the pain that speared through my arm, I wrested it away. “That’s enough, Efram. Get the hell out of here, immediately.” I still couldn’t force him to do anything, but I’d shouted so loudly that the dogs all started barking again—and my voice was even more voluble than theirs.

  I was relieved when Si and Angie emerged hastily from the center building. Both had assisted in our attempt to reeducate Efram, so they knew him.

  They approached us, which hurled my emotions into further turmoil. I didn’t want them endangered, but maybe there was safety in numbers.

  Or maybe not.

  “What are you doing here, Efram?” Angie demanded. “People who work at puppy mills aren’t welcome. Those poor animals!”

  “Like she said.” Si looked at me, as if trying to confirm my opinion.

  I nodded. “Efram was just leaving.” I didn’t look at him.

  “Yeah, okay, I get it,” he growled. “I’m leaving for now. But you can be sure I’ll be back. And if you think I may have abused animals before, just wait till you see how nasty I can get. And not just to the damned dogs and cats you keep here.” He paused, and only then did I glance at him. His face was a feral mask of rage. “Everyone here had just better watch their backs,” he said in a voice so low it was hard to hear. “All of you—especially you, Vancouver.” He shot an extra-menacing glare at me, and then he strode toward the rear exit—even as I finally heard a siren from down the street.

  Chapter 4

  Unsurprisingly, Efram vanished before the police arrived. I told the officer who interviewed me—a young African American guy who clearly loved animals—what had happened. I gathered that, despite Efram’s ugly threat, he would probably not be arrested for his intrusion into HotRescues that day.

  I had Nina take the cop for a walk around the shelter, ostensibly to make sure Efram wasn’t hiding in some remote alcove, but also because I had the sense that the officer was interested in seeing our residents, and I wanted to encourage that. His partner, an older, no-nonsense female cop, pretended disinterest, but she accompanied them.

  I returned to the welcome area. It was long past the time when the woman who’d called so often said she was bringing in her dog. Maybe she had at long last made the final decision to keep her pup at home.

  But that wasn’t the case. A thin thirtysomething lady was standing there when I arrived. She wore tight jeans and a loose shirt in a colorful print pattern.

  Sitting on the floor at her feet, his leash slack since he wasn’t moving, was a golden retriever mix. He looked toward me with anxious eyes as I joined them.

  I believe that pets understand a lot more than most people give them credit for. Often, they recognize words. Even more, they read moods, especially of the people they love.

  This dog clearly sensed something terrible was afoot.

  “Hi,” I said, immediately taking charge. Approaching the woman with my hand outstretched, I continued, “I’m Lauren Vancouver, director of administration of HotRescues.”

  “I’m Brooke Pernall, and this is Cheyenne.” Brooke didn’t shake my hand or meet my eyes. Her face was narrow and gaunt, her mousy brown hair a sparse, unstyled frame around it.

  If I wasn’t mistaken, she was ill. Which made this situation potentially even more heartbreaking.

  “Hi, Cheyenne.” I knelt beside the dog, whose tail gave a halfhearted wag. I couldn’t help it. I hugged him.

  “I have to leave him here, with you. He needs a good home.” As Brooke spoke, her voice grew louder, as if she gained strength from expressing her decision.

  “Yes, he does,” I agreed. “Please have a seat.” I motioned toward the chairs at the table near the window. I nearly shuddered, since the last time I’d seen anyone occupy one, it had been Efram. But helping to resolve this situation might cleanse the area of its bad karma—I hoped.

  Brooke took the seat I indicated, and Cheyenne sat on the tile floor beside her, looking more alert, as if sensing an ally in me. If so, he was one smart dog.

  “So,” I said, “I get it that you want a good home for Cheyenne. What I don’t get is why your home doesn’t qualify.”

  What little color there was beneath Brooke’s papery skin drained away as if sucked quickly inside by an invisible vacuum. Her light amber eyes flooded with tears, making mine grow moist in empathy. I waited.

  “I love Cheyenne,” she said hoarsely. “I wish I could keep him, but . . . my home is being foreclosed on. I’m not sure where I’m going to live, or if . . .” Her voice tapered off, and I realized that the emphasis on her last word was a statement.

  She believed she was dying.

  “Tell me about it,” I said gently, not sure how I could bear hearing her, but I felt certain she needed to talk.

  Her story was probably not unique these days, after the economic crises over the last few years. She had a heart condition, was on medication that helped but the stuff was expensive. Interestingly, she’d worked for a major private investigation firm as an operative—until she became too ill to go out in the field. They’d given her an inside desk job for a while, but as the economy slowed, so had their business. They had recently let her go. When she’d lost her job, she’d also lost her medical insurance, and the combination meant she would
additionally lose her home.

  Now she was about to lose her beloved dog, too. But, unselfishly, she wanted to give Cheyenne the best possible chance at survival and happiness, no matter what happened to her.

  “Where are you living now?” I asked her.

  “I’m still in the house for the time being, but the bank has said they won’t extend that beyond another month or so. That’s why I need to make sure Cheyenne is taken care of right away.”

  “Got any family who could help?” I had to ask, but anticipated the reply.

  “Not really.”

  Cheyenne stood and put his head on Brooke’s knee. She bent over and hugged him.

  I wanted to hug them both. Fix things for them.

  Well, I couldn’t cure Brooke. But I had an idea about how to make things better for them, at least over the short term.

  “Okay,” I said briskly, standing. “Here’s what we’ll do. You take Cheyenne home with you for now. As Nina and I told you over the phone, we can help by supplying dog food. The moment the bank says that’s it, that you have to leave, you can bring Cheyenne back. If necessary, we’ll work out a good adoption for him, one where you’ll be able to visit if you want to. But before we get to that point, we’ll see if we can make things better.”

  Brooke looked up skeptically. “How?”

  “Can’t tell you now,” I replied. “And there are no guarantees. But let me do some checking, see if I can come up with anything so Cheyenne and you can stay together while you’re dealing with your illness. Is it a kind that could be . . .” I stopped. Her prognosis was really not my business.

  “Fatal?” she finished. “Potentially, although there are new medications and other options I could try. I’d have a better chance if my insurance company hadn’t dumped me, though.”

  “Got it,” I said cheerfully. “We’ll see what we can do. Are you okay to drive Cheyenne and you home?”