Hounds Abound (4 page)

Next I called Dante DeFrancisco. With his vast network of HotPets stores, he had resources beyond my comprehension. In addition to his funding HotRescues and HotWildlife, a nearby wildlife sanctuary, he sometimes donated money to other worthwhile pet assistance organizations.

Now that could include Save’Em.

“Everything working out all right with the new and remodeled facilities?” he asked.

“It’s all great,” I assured him, leaning my elbows on the desk near my clunky, aging computer. We discussed particulars for a few minutes, and then I told him the reason for my call.

“Save Them All Sanctuary,” he said in a musing tone as I watched Zoey circle the woven area rug under the desk, preparing to lie down. “The founder is Bella Frankovick, right?”

“Yes, do you know her?”

“She’s a shrewd enough lady. Came to talk to me about donating food. Until she’s well established and I’m impressed with her facility, I’m not giving her anything for free but I’ve cut the price substantially. I like the idea, and I like her. But she’s new at this and I had some misgivings, so we’ll see.”

“Well, I liked what I saw so far. But I’ll keep you informed about anything else I learn about Save’Em.”

“Good.” He said good-bye and hung up.

Dante had set an irritating little fly of unease buzzing around my head. Was Save’Em all it appeared on the outside?

I was still going to try to send as many special-needs pets in its direction as I could.

But I would also have to make sure that my first impressions of Bella Frankovick and her shelter were indeed correct.

Matt and I took a detour before eating that night.

We went to Save’Em.

That little fly kept buzzing around in my mind after my conversation with Dante. Yes, I’m impulsive at times. Compulsive, too.

I’d called Bella first and asked if it was okay for me to bring another friend to see the sanctuary. She was truly gracious, saying I could bring as many friends as I wanted, whenever I wanted.

That didn’t sound like someone with anything to hide.

Plus, I wanted an official Animal Services opinion about the shelter. Well, sort of official. Matt wasn’t assigned to review private shelters, so his opinion would be just that.

He picked me up at HotRescues. I left Zoey again. Nina had gone for the day, but our security director, Brooke
Pernall, would be there with her dog, Cheyenne, so Zoey would have company.

Matt had changed out of his official Animal Services uniform. He wore a black plaid sport shirt tucked into black jeans, an informal, sexy look. I supposed he would look sexy in anything, at least to me.

Matt was a tall, muscular guy with short black hair. His features were craggy, and I always enjoyed how he regarded me appreciatively with his toasty brown eyes.

“This is your second trip there today?” he asked as I slid into the passenger seat of his Animal Services vehicle.

I nodded. “Just want your opinion. I don’t want to influence it, but—well, I was favorably impressed.”

The Save’Em parking lot was less crowded than it had been earlier that day. We walked through the gate and were met inside by Bella, who had already told me that she lived in a small cottage at the rear of the property. She greeted us as warmly as she had greeted Carlie and me that morning.

“I’m surprised to see you again this soon, Lauren,” she said in her charming British accent. She looked as lovely as she had earlier in the day. I was sure Matt noticed.

“I’ve just been talking about Save’Em so much that Matt wanted to see it himself.” And then, to be fair, I mentioned, “He’s an officer with Animal Services.”

Bella’s perfectly made-up blue eyes widened. “Did you see something wrong, Lauren?” Her voice choked. “If so, I wish you’d told me. I’d have done anything to correct it. Anything at all.”

“It’s nothing like that,” I assured her.

The tour was nearly the same as earlier, and Matt seemed impressed, too.

“I still love it,” I told Bella. “I’m letting other private shelters know you’re available to take in special-needs animals. Plus—well, I’ve talked to Dante DeFrancisco. He said you’d already spoken with him. I’ve put in a good word for Save’Em.” I didn’t mention that we’d left things somewhat iffy. I’d be sure to tell him, though, that my opinion hadn’t changed after a second look.

I would mention that I had brought Matt here for a quasi-official appraisal. That way, I wouldn’t appear even a little wishy-washy—which I wasn’t.

“Thank you,” Bella said. She gave me a hug, and Matt and I left.

We stopped for dinner at a Mexican restaurant on our way back to HotRescues. Over a taco salad, I asked Matt for his first thoughts on Save’Em. They were as favorable as mine.

I didn’t need to feel vindicated. I usually only cared about my own opinion. But it didn’t hurt to have the backup of Carlie from before, and now Matt. Especially when I had to report about it to Dante.

But enough of that. Matt and I had something else important to discuss.

“The HotPets Rescue marathon?” Matt said. “Good. I want to talk to you about that. I’m getting a lot of Animal Services folks to run, but any donations they get will be designated for city shelters.”

“Are you running?”

“Of course. You?”

I looked down at my body. I’m in fairly good shape for
a forty-something lady and I exercise when I can—by walking dogs and hefting large bags of pet food. I’d wanted to participate in the upcoming marathon since Dante first mentioned it. He liked to hold events to benefit, and call attention to, pet rescues. We had even gotten Matt to authorize a demonstration by the Small Animal Rescue Team at HotRescues a few weeks ago.

I’d get as many sponsors as I could now for the marathon—ones whose donations would be for HotRescues. And now I’d add Save’Em.

But I had to get into better shape.

Not that I intended to win. But I’d have to finish that race if I started it. If I make a commitment, I produce.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “I’m running.”

“So when are we training?”

It was late Thursday evening. The weekend was fast approaching.

“Sunday,” I said. “Why don’t you come to my house with Rex? We’ll take both dogs out and run.”

“It’s a date,” he said.

For the next couple of days, Zoey and I got to HotRescues late, a rare occurrence. But as soon as I woke in the morning, she and I took a run around the gated community of Porter Ranch, where we live. That way, I’d be prepared when Matt and his dog, Rex, a black Lab mix, joined us.

Matt and Rex joined Zoey and me late on Sunday. We ran together through my residential neighborhood. I waved as we passed neighbors and their dogs, as I had during Zoey’s and my earlier outings. Their formerly amazed
expressions—if I hadn’t imagined them—had been replaced by friendly encouragement.

Dinner tasted good that night, after I’d showered and sent Matt into my kids’ bathroom to shower, too.

And later—well, I somehow got my energy back. Enough of it, at least, to spend a very pleasant night with Matt.

More than a week passed after my first marathon practice with Matt. On most days, I took at least a short run with Zoey, who clearly loved it. My stamina definitely continued to improve. I intended to be in great condition by the time of the actual marathon, a few weeks away.

It was early Monday morning. I had just awakened and let Zoey into the fenced yard for her first evacuation of the day.

I often watch morning news shows on TV as I get ready to head to HotRescues. It’s usually just background noise. Today, though, the local news got my attention. I heard the announcer ask, “What is your opinion of Save Them All Sanctuary, Dr. Drammon?”

I rushed over to the aging TV perched on a dresser in my bedroom—not nearly as nice as the one in the living room that had been chosen by my son, Kevin.

I had already showered and put on my blue HotRescues staff shirt, but hadn’t yet pulled on my slacks. I’d run a comb through my hair and begun putting on the light makeup I generally wore. Now I perched my butt on the edge of my mattress as I watched.

The man who sat in a chair to the left of the screen was a usual anchor for the show. The man in the chair facing
him did not look familiar. He was lean, with a hairline that had started to drift back on his head. What hair was left was dark, peppered with gray. He wore narrow, black-rimmed glasses and looked sincere as he responded to the question. “I’ve been a veterinarian for more than fifteen years. I’m all for saving as many animals as possible. That’s what I do. But quality of life is so important. And I worry about the dogs and cats that are kept at Save Them All.”

“Why is that?” asked the anchor.

“Because its professed purpose is to take in senior animals that are not otherwise adoptable. Those with disabilities, too. In theory, it’s a wonderful idea. But if the animals are elderly, how long should they be allowed to grow older? Suffer? Same goes for the handicapped. A few can, perhaps, be helped. But once again, prolonging their lives can lead to suffering.”

“Then you think that a shelter like Save Them All Sanctuary is a bad idea?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Private shelters generally take in mostly younger animals, those that are healthy, because those pets are far more likely to find loving homes. Just keeping animals in poor condition alive, well …” He trailed off, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, almost as if wiping away tears.

He appeared so sincere. So caring.

I wanted to confront him immediately, ask why on earth he had become a veterinarian if he believed so strongly in euthanizing just because.

The announcer got that, too. “So at your veterinary clinic, if a pet is old or has problems, you believe it’s best to put them down.”

Drammon nodded. “For their own sakes. So they don’t suffer.”

I had a hard time listening after that. The interview fortunately didn’t last much longer.

I grabbed my BlackBerry from its nightstand charger and pressed the button to recall Bella Frankovick’s number. Did she know about this?

I got her voice mail and left a message to call as soon as she could. No details, though. I’d wait till I spoke with her to see if she knew about this Dr. Drammon and the interview.

She and I had met for coffee a few days back. Talked about our philosophies on saving pets, which were similar. We’d even called each other a couple times to touch base. And, surprisingly, we’d begun sending each other text messages now and then, as if we were half our ages. I got a kick out of it.

That was why I texted her next, telling her to call me.

I needed to finish getting dressed. Quickly. Before I decided to punch out some defenseless furniture in aggravation.

When Zoey and I took our customary morning walk-through HotRescues that morning, I remained irritated enough to be abrupt at first with Nina and other staff members and volunteers, though my ugly mood wasn’t their fault.

Most understood. Our handyman, Pete Engersol, cleaning a kennel, just grinned as I snapped a criticism at him. He was used to dealing, now and then, with my bad moods if animal welfare was at stake.

I ran into Dr. Mona Harvey, our part-time shrink who counseled people interested in adopting our residents. She bent to pat Zoey until her tweed skirt nearly touched the ground, then stood and looked into my face through narrow glasses. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, obviously seeing my irritability without my having to say a word.

“No, thanks. I think Nina said someone interested in one of our cats will be coming by later today. Will you be able to meet with them?”

“I’ve got it scheduled,” she said. “And you’re changing the subject.”

“Yes, I am. See you later.”

Bev, our older volunteer who could practically run the place, also virtually ignored me as Pete had. Some younger volunteers like Ricki just skirted around Zoey and me. A college-age African American, Ricki had just started school to become a veterinary technician but still managed to visit HotRescues when not in class.

Then there was Mamie Spelling. The short senior citizen with curly, red-dyed hair had been playing with two terrier mixes in our fenced park area when I ran into her.

Mamie had been my mentor years ago when I first became interested in pet rescues. Recently, she had turned into an animal hoarder. And a murder suspect. She was aging and confused, the only reasons I’d sort of forgiven her. After her hoarded animals had all been saved, and the real murderer had been caught, I’d encouraged her to move into a senior facility near HotRescues and volunteer here, where I could keep an eye on her.

She’d given me a teary look as I’d walked past before,
but now she approached and gave me a hug over the waist-high fence. “Tell me why you’re upset, Lauren, dear,” she said.

Feeling guilty for being in such an obviously foul mood, I complied.

After I finished my story, she nodded her agreement with my judgment of the TV vet. “Anyone who criticizes heartfelt pet rescues is a jerk.”

I laughed. But this interaction with Mamie finally got through to me. I was letting that miserable interview, with someone I didn’t know and who clearly
was
a jerk, bother me too much.