Page 47 of Slots & Sticks
The sound in that kennel goes through me. Every bark, every whine. It’s too familiar — all those animals begging for attention they might never get. A tiny echo of what it feels like to be left behind. Every pair of eyes on me could be a ghost, waiting for a ride home that might not come. I want to scoop up all of them, promise them they’re wanted. It hurts, knowing I can’t.
“My dad’s last two dogs were like that. Bonded, I mean.” I stuff my hands into my pockets. I wasn’t as attached to Mitzi and Moppet as I was to the dogs we had when I was growing up, but thinking about them makes me think about Mom, which makes me think about Dad and how my parents, too, were a bonded pair. I can’t take Skinbad away from his one source of comfort.
I’m not a monster. I know how this works. If I take Skinbad away and leave Bo behind, her outcome won’t be good.
This emotional dilemma leaves me with only one option.
“Can you tell me about Bo?”
Ginger sets Skinbad on the floor. He immediately scrambles between Bo’s legs and stands there, shivering and growling at us. Bo grants us a sleepy blink and then stares out of the large window on the exterior wall of the room.
“She’s some kind of Afghan mix. We think poodle, probably?” Ginger pats Bo’s head and gets another solitary tail wag. “Afghan hounds aresorare that they usually get adopted right away. But she’s a mutt, so there’s that, and then there’s the hair to boot. We got it brushed out once, but she’s going to need a ton of coat care, and a lot of people aren’t up to the task.”
“Oh.” I twist my fingers together. “Sure, I can see that.”
“And black dogs get adopted at much lower rates than others.” Ginger sighs. “Well, I’ll leave you to meet Krusty. Want me to take Bo back to her kennel so that the three of you can get acquainted?”
“No, she can stay.”
Ginger shoots me a knowing look. She must know I’m a big softie, what with the thousand-dollar deposit I paid over the phone. “Okay. I’ll come back in a bit and see how you’re doing.” She unclips Bo, loops the leash over the door handle, and departs.
Camden sits down under the window, with his back to the wall. I squat down and reach toward Skinbad, where he’s huddled beneath Bo’s matted belly. As soon as my hand enters his personal space, he snaps at me. His stubby little teeth don’t look like they could do much damage, but pushing his boundaries won’t warm him up to me. I retreat to the plastic-covered sofa on the far side of the room, sit down, and wait.
“Dot.” Camden’s expression is grave. “You aren’t by any chance considering a double adoption, are you?”
Watching them together—her still as a statue, him shaking like a leaf beneath her—hits something soft in my chest. Two misfits clinging to each other because the world hasn’t given them much else. I know that language. I’ve spoken it my whole life. They don’t match, not really. But they don’t seem to care. They just fit where it matters. I want that. I want to believe I could have that too.
I flap my hand toward Bo. “You heard Ginger. Black dogs are less adoptable. Dad used to talk about that, too. I guess they’re harder to see when people are touring the shelter or something.”
“That, and superstition. It’s the same with cats, I’ve heard.” Camden sighs. “She’s a lot bigger than he is, though, and your dad isn’t going to be able to do much. Even if she doesn’t hurt him, she’s going to need more exercise and brushing than this naked little sausage.” He points toward the sausage in question. I’m not one to fat-shame, in part because I’m not a hypocrite, but Skinbad is certainly rotund. He glares at us in turn with his funky eyes and hunches his back defensively.
I can’t laugh at him, even if he’s the least threatening thing I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s currently living on borrowed time. If I was Skinbad, I’d be angry at the world, too.
“I can brush Bo,” I say. “Or shave her. There are groomers in Vegas, and she doesn’t look like she’d put up much of a fight.”
Camden shakes his head. His mouth is curved into a small, knowing smile that matches the one Ginger gave when I said she could leave Bo with us.
“What do you think, Bo?” he asks. The dog’s ears twitch at the sound of her name. “You want to come home with Dot?” He pats his thighs. “Come here, Bo.”
Bo stares at him, utterly nonplussed, for a solid fifteen seconds. Camden pats his legs again. She reaches some silent decision and glides over to him, where she proceeds to sniff his face thoroughly from about two centimeters away. Camden closes his eyes and laughs when her exhaled breath ruffles his hair.
Skinbad does not take kindly to being abandoned. He whines and tucks his tail between his legs. His earlier trembling returns.
“Aw, poor boy.” I press my hands to my face. Skinbad hates me, but I adore him already.
Bo gives a final sniff. Her legs abruptly buckle beneath her, and she flops down beside Camden so that her head rests in his lap.
“Looks like I have Bo’s blessing.” He pets her long, narrow head. “How about you, little man?”
Skinbad’s feet tap against the floor in a nervous little dance. He whines again.
Bo lets out a contented sigh and shifts herself closer to Camden.
Skinbad’s fighting spirit breaks. He totters over to Camden, sniffs his way from sneakers to belt, then crawls into Camden’s lap and resumes his curled posture from earlier.
In that moment, I swear I hear them choose him. Not just me. It’s silent but loud in my chest. Bo rests her head in his lap. Skinbad curls as if I’m background noise. They are claiming this as safe. Him. Us.
I laugh at the sight of them. “What the hell?I’mthe one here to adopt them.”
