“I'll handle it.” She was already writing. “We'll start with the easier placements. Daisy's perfect for families. Tucker just needs someone with a yard. Even grumpy old Hank would be fine with the right person.”
The thought of actually rehoming them should've been a relief. Instead, my chest tightened. What if they went to someone who didn't understand that Daisy needed her food in a puzzle feeder or Tucker got anxious during thunderstorms?
They'd be someone else's problem instead of yours.
“Fine. Whatever you think will work.”
“Don't sound so enthusiastic.”
Mrs. Yamamoto arrived at eight sharp with Mochi's carrier. The Persian tolerated my examination with regal disdain—overweight but healthy, same as every year. I caught myself rushing through the wellness check, mind already at the diner.
A puppy. Alone. Scared.
I scribbled vaccination notes while Mrs. Yamamoto cooed over her cat, then walked them back to the reception faster than usual.
Sharon handled the payment and I watched the transaction with the detachment of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Money in, money out. Except most of it went straight to dog food and vet supplies I bought at cost.
This is why you do checkups. This is how you feed twelve—no, thirteen—dogs.
Mrs. Yamamoto left in a cloud of expensive perfume. I was already reaching for my keys.
“Got everything handled?”
Sharon glanced up from the computer. “Your next appointment’s at nine-thirty. Sullivan Farm.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Cal—”
But I was already out the door.
The drive to the diner took less than five minutes. I gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, already running through what I'd need—flea treatment, dewormer, puppy formula if it was too young for solid food. My emergency kit was in the back. Always was.
Frank was waiting by the dumpster when I pulled in the parking lot, arms crossed, looking both concerned and exasperated.
“It's wedged back there.” He nodded toward the corner. “Won't budge.”
I grabbed my bag and the carrier from the truck. “How long's it been there?”
“A day, maybe two. Saw it this morning when I took out the trash. Tried to coax it with bacon.” He shook his head. “Nothing.”
I walked over and crouched down, squinting into the narrow gap between the dumpster and brick wall. Two bright eyes stared back from the shadows. The rest was just a dark, trembling shape pressed as far back as possible.
Here we go.
The pavement was cold and damp, but I sat down anyway. Set my bag to the side and settled in.
Frank shifted behind me. “You want me to?—”
“Just leave us.”
His footsteps retreated toward the diner's back door.
I fished a treat from my pocket and tossed it about halfway between us. The puppy's ears twitched, but that was it.
“Not hungry, huh?” My voice was low, conversational. “Or maybe you're just smarter than you look.”
I threw another treat, this one landing closer to the shadows.