Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Some are surrendered voluntarily: change of circumstances—homelessness, new babies and partners. Some come from the local pound, saved from euthanasia in the nick of time. Then there are the ones picked up on the street. They’re usually in a terrible mess. Fleas, worms, sores, infections, and matted coats.”
“Until you come along.”
“Not just me. There are a couple of us who pitch in, also groomers and other volunteers. Dogs need to be walked, their runs and kennels cleaned, and then there’s the training. Cats need socialization, and then there’s the admin.”
“The cats take care of admin? How efficient.”
I catch myself smiling at his silly joke. Sometimes, I just don’t know whether I’m on my ass or my elbow with him.
“Nora would love the cats to work for their keep,” I answer brusquely. “She hates dealing with paperwork.”
“And the aim is to find all these animals new homes?”
“The ultimate aim. With medical help and a little TLC, most of the animals are ready for a family pretty quickly. For others, it’s the damage we can’t see that stops them from being pets. Psychological damage that can’t always be healed, though we try, don’t we, Mr. Bojangles?” I bend to pat his head as he dances between us.
“He’s a very different-looking dog,” Oliver says, his gaze sweeping along the kennels full of terriers, hounds, and our myriad of mixed breeds.
“Bo here is a designer doggy. A labradoodle that has found himself here through no fault of his own.” If you discount his intelligence and his willful nature.
“And he hasn’t been easy to rehome?”
“He has, but he’s like a boomerang. He just keeps coming back.”
“I wonder why,” Oliver mutters, moving Bo’s nose from his crotch again.
“He does seem to like sticking his head there.” I press my hand over my mouth, but it does nothing to stem my giggles.
“Do you suppose I should be flattered? Buy him a thank-you gift?”
“Maybe you could just adopt him? He’s already so fond of you.”
“Not a chance,” he deadpans.
“Nora wouldn’t let you, anyway. He’s staying until she finds a family who can convince her they’re going to keep him.”
Next, I slip into Bella’s run, the elderly beagle waddling her way over to me.
“What’s wrong with the way she walks?”
“Bella has cruciate ligament damage.”
“A torn ACL?”
“More like a chronic wearing,” I reply as I run through a quick checkup. Eyes. Ears. Teeth. Fur. No need for the works. She hasn’t been ill since she escaped and helped herself to a whole bin of kibble a few months ago, the greedy pup. It was touch and go as to whether her stomach would need to be pumped, and I’m sure she had the worst case of tummy ache, but that’s greedy beagles for you.
“You can operate to fix that, can’t you?”
I make a noncommittal noise as I pull out a liver treat. “She’s doing okay on anti-inflammatories, which is good, because Nora doesn’t have the funds to cover her surgery. Never mind a recovery.”
“What’s Change of Heart still doin’ here?” Nora’s strident question arrives before she does, rounding the corner with a chipped but steaming mug in each hand. She directs her beetle-browed look toward Oliver.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks blandly.
“You heard.”
“Nora,” I half laugh, half correct as I turn her way. “Oliver is not a volunteer.”
“If he’s here, he’s working. Them’s the rules,” she retorts, ignoring my gentle rebuke.
“I’m not sure you can afford my rate,” Oliver murmurs, though Nora pretends not to hear.
“There are a dozen fifteen-kilo bags of kibble that need moving into the stores. The pet shop on the high street donated it this morning.” The first she says to Oliver, the latter to me.
“Well, that’s great!”
“Would be even better if those bags could shift themselves.” She glares Oliver’s way.
“I take it you’d like me to move them,” Oliver asks with a completely straight face.
“Well,” she says, thrusting one of the steaming mugs in his direction. “Let me think. Does Barbie have a plastic fanny?”
Oliver blinks, taken aback.
“Is a duck’s arse watertight?” She glances my way. “You’re sure this one’s firing on all cylinders?”
“My cylinders fire just fine,” Oliver drawls. Thankfully, he doesn’t add, Just ask Eve.
“He looks like a chameleon in a packet of Skittles,” she says, disregarding his answer. “Confused. But they don’t have to be clever when they look like that, I suppose.”
“Nora!” I give in to a delighted snicker.
“You know that one stubborn hair you have on your nipple?” she asks out of nowhere. “The one you pluck, but no matter what, it just comes back?”
“No.” My answer sounds like a rusty violin string as my cheeks begin to burn hotter than a thousand suns. Lord, this woman!
“Well, I reckon your last one couldn’t have had more hair on his chest than me, but he was pretty.” Glancing over her shoulder, she gives Oliver a thorough once-over. “But this one, he’s something else.”