The Twelve Dogs of Christmas

by Lizzie Shane

  “I could help with that,” he offered. “I’ve lived here most of my life. If there’s one thing I know, it’s this town.”

  She looked at him, skeptic of the town Scrooge offering more help. “Really?”

  “Sure. I need to get back to work now, but I could come by over my lunch hour tomorrow. You could show me which dogs you’ve had the hardest time getting adopted, and I’ll try to think of the person who would fit them the best. We can even take some new photos for the Twelve Dogs of Christmas feature. Add a cute Santa hat or some tinsel or something.”

  “It’s a better strategy than anything I’ve got.” And way more than she had expected from him. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  * * *

  Ben walked quickly back toward town hall, kicking himself for volunteering time he didn’t have. He’d intended to talk to her about the newsletter, nothing more, but something about her skepticism had made him want to prove her wrong. To show that he wasn’t the Scrooge everyone seemed to think he was.

  Not to mention the fact that he could really use a win right now. He might not be able to give Astrid the big house with the yard, or make everyone in town happy with an unlimited budget for town events, or even get his washing machine fixed in a reasonable amount of time, but he could find homes for these dogs.

  He’d dedicate one more lunch hour to the cause of helping the shelter, and that would be it. One easy victory and redemption in the eyes of the town.

  He knew this town. He knew these people. How hard could it be?

  Chapter Eight

  Ally was still thinking about Ben’s offer an hour later when her grandparents returned from Burlington. The Twelve Dogs of Christmas. It was a cute idea. Cute enough that she wished she’d thought of it herself. She couldn’t seem to focus on the grant application in front of her, so as soon as she heard the crunch of gravel under tires, she flipped the laptop closed and headed outside.

  Gram still wasn’t wearing her sling as she climbed out of the car, but at least she didn’t make a move to lift the pet carrier.

  “What’s the verdict?” Ally asked as Gramps opened the driver’s side door and Copper tumbled out in an excited rush. She opened the tailgate and reached for Dolce’s carrier. “Is she healthy?”

  “Very healthy,” Gram gushed.

  “And pregnant,” Gramps added.

  Ally froze. “Oh no.”

  “Don’t worry. The puppies will get snapped up fast,” Gram assured her—but Ally’s thoughts were already spiraling.

  The vet bills. The time. Dolce couldn’t be spayed until the puppies were weaned, which would be weeks. Well after the first-of-the-year shutdown deadline. Then the puppies would all need shots. And to be spayed and neutered…“When’s she due?”

  “A couple of weeks. Give or take. She seems most comfortable in the crate, so we’ll set it up in the office so she feels nice and safe—” Gram opened the shelter door, frowning when there wasn’t a riot of barking to greet her. “They’re all so quiet. Did you drug them?”

  Ally snorted. “They’re tired. We had an adventure while you were gone. You know Harry? Turns out she knows how to open doors. She let everyone out and had them running up and down the aisle.”

  “No!” Gram gasped, her eyes alight. “I wished I’d been here to see it.”

  “Explains why they call her Houdini,” Gramps grunted, nudging Colby out of the way so Ally could set Dolce’s carrier in the corner.

  Ally’s head snapped up. “Houdini?” she demanded.

  “Mm,” Gram mused. “It was such an odd name for her, and she never responded to it, so we just started calling her Harry—short for Harriet—but now it makes sense. An escape artist. Isn’t she clever?”

  “You aren’t the one who had to chase them all back into their runs.” Though it was probably a good thing Gram hadn’t been there. She would have reinjured her shoulder for sure. “I was lucky Ben was here or it would have taken all afternoon.”

  “Ben?”

  “Ben West came by. He had some ideas for helping us find homes for the dogs. Some feature in the town’s email newsletter.”

  “See? I knew they didn’t mean to take our funding.”

  “They still revoked our funding, Gram. I think he just felt…I don’t know. Responsible.” Which made it a lot harder to keep thinking of him as the villain. “Do we have any Christmas stuff that would fit the dogs? Santa hats or scarves or anything?”

  Her grandmother’s eyes flared with excitement. “Do we have Christmas stuff? I am almost insulted you had to ask.”

  * * *

  Her grandmother’s Christmas stores were impressive, to say the least. Ally didn’t find a Santa hat, but she did collect some cute options, piling them in the office the next day so she’d be ready when Ben arrived—though part of her still doubted he was coming. He had no reason to help them.

  She could do this without him. She might not know which townspeople were right for which dogs, but it wasn’t like she didn’t know how to take pictures—

  A cascade of barks alerted her to his arrival. Ally straightened, moving to the open doorway of the office as the outer door opened.

  “Hey.” Ben nodded, stripping off his gloves.

  “Hey.” Awkwardness hummed in the air between them. “Are you hungry? My gram made some sandwiches, since I mentioned you might be coming during your lunch hour. My grandparents had lunch plans, but she wanted to make sure I was being a good host.”

  “You don’t have to feed me. I pretty much invited myself—”

  “To help us. This whole Twelve Dogs thing is for the shelter. The least we can do is feed you. And Gram makes a mean ham and cheese. Seriously, you don’t want to miss it.”

  A smile quirked up one side of his beard. “In that case…”

  Ally stepped back into the office, where the picnic basket her grandmother had shoved at her sat on the desk. Gram had even wrapped the handle in a bright red ribbon. “Gram’s all about presentation,” Ally muttered as she unpacked the lunch.

  Ben sat on the couch while Ally took the chair behind the desk. Colby padded over to lay his head on her lap, sighing dramatically when she failed to immediately slip him some of her ham and cheese.

  Ben jerked his chin in Colby’s direction. “That one doesn’t have a pen?”

  “This one’s mine.” She ruffled his silky ears. “Colby. He’s very friendly.”

  “He’s very large.”

  Ally grinned. “That too. Did you have a bad experience with a dog…?”

  “No, I just…” He shrugged. “We never had one growing up. Did you always have dogs?”

  “Nah. Not when I was a kid. I wanted one so badly. I love Gram and Gramps, but I think the main reason I always wanted to come up here to visit when I was little was so I could play with their dogs. They only had a couple then—that was before they retired and started the shelter.”

  “Your grandmother, she was the art teacher, right?”

  “At the high school. Yeah.” Ally reached into the basket, pulling out a pear and offering it to him. He declined with a shake of his head. “You never took art?” She’d officially reverted to small talk.

  “No, I was more of a math and science kid.” He lifted his sandwich. “This is really good.”

  “Right? I can’t get her to tell me what the secret ingredient is. Dijon, maybe?” Great. Now she was talking about mustard. Because that wasn’t awkward at all.

  “Don’t ask me. I’m useless in the kitchen.”

  She didn’t know why she felt so uncomfortable around him. Maybe because she’d judged him too quickly.

  Dolce gave a soft yip from inside her crate and Ben jumped, braced for the threat. “There’s something in there.”

  “That’s Dolce, our newcomer. She’s still a little nervous. I’m sure being driven to Burlington and back to see the vet didn’t help.”

  “Right, this was the one who couldn’t go on the website
until she was healthy.” Ben bent down, cautiously peering inside. “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah. The crate’s just her safe place. She’s perfectly healthy. Pregnant. But very healthy.”

  He glanced up and cringed. “Mazel tov?”

  She laughed, the sound equally pained and amused. “Yeah. Not ideal.” She stood, feeding the last of her sandwich to Colby and dusting off her hands. “You ready to meet the dogs? Don’t worry. They’re much easier to handle one at a time. And they already like you.”

  His eyebrows popped up in high skeptical arches. “They do?”

  “Absolutely. Give them a treat and they’ll love you forever.” She plucked a bag of treats off the desk and tossed it to him. Ben caught it against his chest, still looking dubious.

  Ally led the way into the heart of the kennels, greeting the dogs by name and giving Ben a little information about each one as they walked down the aisle.

  “I’m sure you remember Harry, short for Harriet. Or Houdini, apparently.” She indicated the sweet Australian shepherd who was currently racing through the dog door into the outer portion of her run, then back inside, leaping over her raised dog dish and literally bouncing off the wall before taking another lap. “She’s already been adopted and returned to different shelters twice. We just got her about a week ago and yesterday…Well. You saw.” Ally indicated the elaborate lock system on Harry’s run. “We think we have her contained now. She might be the smartest dog in here, and she’s as sweet as the day is long, but she needs someone who doesn’t mind a challenge. And a lot of energy.”

  Ally moved onto the next run, avoiding looking directly at Ben as eight tiny feet pattered to meet them. “Fred and Ginger—totally sweet and completely codependent. If we try to separate them, they both stop eating. They’re both older, and they came to us when their owner passed away suddenly. Ginger has a bad back, so she can’t handle stairs, and she needs a ramp to get up on the couch. And Fred’s epileptic. It’s managed with medication, but the meds aren’t cheap, and with so many other dogs to choose from, most people pick a pet that isn’t so complicated.”

  In the run beside Fred and Ginger, a giant shaggy head pressed against the door. “Maximus—half Irish wolfhound, half Great Dane—we think—and only half trained. But all heart. He was never taught good manners when he was young, and he’s so big he’s hard to manage. We’ve been working with him, but he doesn’t know his own strength and needs someone who can handle a pony who thinks he’s a lap dog.”

  Another cage, another story. Peanut, the chihuahua who couldn’t hear. Trapper the one-eyed Jack Russell. And poor Daisy, who peed in submissive reflex every time a stranger tried to touch her.

  None of them belonged here, but there was a reason each one was here. Which was why she’d been so disheartened by the idea of finding homes for all of them in the next four weeks. Shelters in other areas were just as overcrowded as they were, especially at the holidays, so it wasn’t like she could transfer them all.

  They reached the end of the aisle, and she stopped in front of the final run. “And last, but not least, Partridge.”

  The bulldog waddled to the front of his enclosure, panting and trailing strings of drool out of each side of his mouth.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with him.” Ally unlatched the gate and crouched down to ruffle his skin rolls. “He just hasn’t found his people yet. Isn’t that right, Your Drooliness?”

  Partridge gazed up at her adoringly, listing to one side as he leaned into her scratches.

  “I was thinking we could start with him, since he fits the whole Twelve Dogs of Christmas theme,” Ben suggested from where he stood well back of the open run.

  Ally glanced up over her shoulder. “You know someone who would be perfect for him?”

  “Not off the top of my head. But I’m sure if we highlight him, let the community know the shelter is closing, and enlist their help to get the word out, we’ll find the right person.”

  He was standing about as far back from Partridge’s pen as he could get without leaving the shelter entirely. It was sort of adorable, the gruff man with the scruffy beard holding himself so stiffly aloof. Determined not to let the dogs into his heart.

  Partridge snorted and snuffled at her hand, and Ally turned her attention back to rubbing his ears. “What do you need to feature him?”

  Ben took a single step closer. “Any information that might make people want to adopt him. And some Christmassy picture.”

  “Right.” She straightened, glancing down at the least photogenic dog on the planet. “I have some costume options in the office. I’ll be right back.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ben watched Ally half-jogging away from him down the aisle, and a warm lump settled against his ankle. He startled, glancing down to see Partridge leaning against him.

  She’d left him alone with the dog. The cage door was open, and there wasn’t a leash in sight. Luckily, Partridge didn’t seem terribly eager to make a run for it. He sat half on top of Ben’s shoe, gazing up at him fixedly and occasionally licking his—very moist—chops.

  “Hi.” Ben tried to edge his foot out from under the dog, but Partridge only shuffled closer, replanting himself and brushing close enough to leave a clinging streak of drool on Ben’s jeans. “Thanks,” he said dryly, and Partridge snorted, staring up at him like it was a contest.

  Ben glanced toward the front of the shelter, but Ally was nowhere in sight. He didn’t think he’d ever been alone with a dog before now. Especially one who seemed to be trying to will him into doing something with his puppy psychic powers.

  “Can I help you?” he asked the dog.

  Partridge grunted and leaned more of his bulk against Ben’s leg with a weary sigh, as if exhausted by his obtuseness.

  “Sorry. I’m not much of a dog person,” he admitted, bending down to pat the bulldog awkwardly on the top of the head. Partridge instantly perked up, lunging upward clumsily, and Ben flinched back, anticipating a bite—or at least a really wet lick—but all he felt was a soft, warm snuffling against his fingertips. He scratched Partridge tentatively behind his ear and the dog sighed, gazing adoringly—

  At the bag in his other hand.

  The treats. The dog had been trying to get the dumb human to give him a snack. And here Ben was, bending over and holding the bag inches away from the poor guy’s face. “Is this what you want?” he asked, reaching into the bag and plucking out a dried brown square that smelled strongly of liver.

  Partridge went statue-still, focused intently on the treat. His only movement was a wet slurp of his tongue.

  Ben dropped the treat toward the dog’s mouth—unsure he would keep his fingers if he got them close enough to actually hand over the snack. It bounced off Partridge’s nose and the bulldog lunged after it, snarfing it off the scarred hardwood floor in the blink of an eye. And then instantly returning to his position at Ben’s ankle, resuming the feed-me lean.

  “Sorry, buddy. I don’t know if you’re allowed to have more than one.” He sealed the bag, tucking it into his pocket—but Partridge continued his attempt to Jedi-mind-trick him into food. Ben leaned down, watching the dog carefully to make sure he wasn’t about to lose a finger, and gave him another cautious pat on the head. The dog leaned into the caress, groaning softly, his eyes going half closed.

  When Ben straightened, Partridge whined softly, leaning into his leg—and dribbling more drool onto his shoe.

  “What? What do you want now?”

  “You’ve got treats.”

  Ben jumped. He hadn’t heard Ally come back, so focused on Partridge and his impressive saliva production. She was still six feet away, walking up the aisle with her arms full of Christmas décor and a fancy camera. The giant, droopy Saint Bernard padded at her heels.

  “I already gave him one,” Ben admitted.

  “In his mind, one is never enough. Partridge is very food motivated.” She stopped a couple of feet away, but the
huge Saint Bernard kept moving past her toward him.

  “Whoa.” Ben stumbled back, shying away—and Partridge tipped over with the loss of his shin as support, somehow making the move look slow motion as he listed into a sprawl on the scratched hardwood.

  “Don’t mind Colby,” Ally said. “He just wants to say hello to Partridge. Go on, lie down, Colb.”

  The Saint Bernard didn’t have to be told twice. He’d paused to sniff Partridge, but at the command he turned in a circle and flopped down with a sigh, as if utterly exhausted by life. Ben watched him for a moment to make sure he was down for the count, and when he looked up again, Ally was studying him.

  “You really aren’t comfortable around dogs, are you?”

  “Not uncomfortable. Just…cautious.”

  Her smile revealed a small dimple in her left cheek. “Well, don’t worry. Partridge is easy. He’s all heart and stomach.”

  “And drool.”

  “That too.” The words came out half-laughing. She held up the Christmas things she’d brought. “What do you think? Can we make him look festive? I thought we’d shoot him in his dog bed so it looks sort of cozy. The lighting will be better there, too. Or we could take him up to the house. Put him in front of the Christmas tree…”

  “No, this is good.” Ben took some of the ribbon from her hands, noticing the camera again. It was the same one she’d been carrying the other day, but this time it had attachments—like something from a professional photo shoot. “That’s quite a camera.”

  Ally glanced down at it as she set the Christmas things she’d brought in a pile. “If we want to do this, we might as well do it right, don’t you think?” She pulled a dog biscuit from her pocket and lured Partridge back into his run and over to his dog bed. The dog flopped down with a huff and she crouched, sticking a giant bow right on top of his head. “I could use the practice with live models anyway. I’ve mostly been doing scenery shots since I came up here—and the occasional shot of locals putting up a tree in the town square. Sorry about that, by the way. I really will pay for your dry cleaning.”