For the first six months after I left the police force, I toured New Zealand in an old combi van. Ghost and I spent our days walking along beaches or trekking through the mountains, and our nights either lying outside looking up at the stars or in the van listening to the rain pattering on the windows, both lost in our own private misery.
It was when I was traveling up to Cape Reinga—the northernmost point of the country—that I first heard about Noah’s Ark. Close to Waitangi, where the Treaty was signed between Maori and Europeans in 1840, it overlooks the Bay of Islands, and it’s now apparently the biggest animal sanctuary in the North Island. On the way back from the cape, I decided to call in and check it out. It was purely by chance that Noah King was sitting out the front, painting a new sign for it. He greeted me, and we chatted for a while, and he offered to give me a tour of the place, which I accepted. He’s in his forties, quiet, kind, and friendly. It was quite a bit later that I realized the sanctuary is named after him because he founded it.
Noah showed me around, and it soon became clear that the place is more than a sanctuary and veterinary clinic, although it’s both of those things too. Noah explained that in a study done on families under investigation for child physical abuse, animals were also abused in a shocking eighty-eight percent of the homes, and animal abusers are five times more likely to also harm humans. Because of this, they opened the Petting Zoo with the intention of teaching young children how to care for animals, and they also do a lot of work with domestic violence shelters.
Noah asked what job I did, and I admitted that I used to work for the Pacific Detector Dog Team. He suggested we go for a walk around the paddock, and when we paused beneath a large oak tree and leaned on the fence to stroke a horse that came up to greet us, in the peace and the quiet, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, Noah asked why I’d left the force.
I explained that our task was to combat transnational and serious and organized crime syndicates that target Pacific countries. I told him about our transfer to Fiji, and how our team was given the task of clearing a warehouse where smugglers were rumored to be storing firearms. Haltingly, I described how I patted down a guy, looking for firearms, and missed adetonation device he’d hidden in his clothing. How, when it was triggered, it killed my partner and his dog outright, damaged my shoulder, and also injured Ghost. In a voice hoarse with emotion, I told him how I couldn’t bring myself to go to my partner’s funeral, and, ever since, I’ve been traveling. I don’t know why. Escaping what happened? Looking for something? I still have no idea.
While I struggled to maintain my composure, Noah talked for a while about Animal-Assisted Therapy, and how important he thought dogs especially could be to recovery from trauma. He explained how he’d suffered from agoraphobia after his first wife died in childbirth, and how his dogs had been crucial in his recovery. And then he said he needed someone to help run the rehoming facility at the Ark, training the dogs who are brought in by the Animal Welfare Team, and he asked me if I’d like to join them.
I was doubtful at first. Saying yes meant staying in one place, and for some reason the thought terrified me. But Noah suggested I stay for one week, which became one month, and now it’s six months later, and I think he’s hoping I’ll settle down here.
But a shadow falls over me as I crest the hill. I like the people, and I enjoy the work. I’m bordering on happy, I realize with some surprise. And that worries me.
I’ve grown too comfortable. It’s time to move on. Maybe even before Christmas. Spending the festive season here will only make it harder to go.
The sanctuary appears before me—a cluster of buildings surrounded by paddocks, overlooking the Bay of Islands. I go through the gate and head along the drive, passing the Petting Zoo, toward the big sign that I saw Noah painting six months ago. It says Noah’s Ark No-Kill Animal Sanctuary, and the picture of the ark above the words contains paintings ofdomestic animals like dogs and cats, and farm animals like horses and sheep.
I pass the children’s playground that’s recently been built opposite the sign with a large sunshade to protect the kids, and the jacaranda tree next to it that’s been draped with solar lights, and head across the tiled Quad toward the main reception. I’ll check my cubby hole for any post, then head over to the Forever Home—the rehoming facility. We had two abused dogs brought in yesterday. They’ve been cleaned up and treated, and today I’m going to spend some time with them and see if they know any basic commands.
I open the door to Reception, and Ghost and I walk inside. It’s a large, rectangular room between the main clinic and the rest of the Ark, with a waiting area for visitors and patients. A small Christmas tree sits on the end of the reception desk, well away from any nosy pets. The Ark isn’t open yet, but there’s already an older woman sitting in the row of chairs with a cat in a carrier, and a man with a Yorkie at his feet.
Ghost immediately goes over to the table by the wall that holds a water cooler and leaflets about the Ark and its sister sanctuary in Hawke’s Bay, and he lies underneath it on the cool tiles, out of the way of anyone passing through. It’s often busy here, as the doorway on the other side leads to a corridor that turns left to the veterinary clinic and right to the main offices, and everyone cuts through here to collect messages, meet visitors, or pick up any deliveries. Today, Frieda is behind the reception desk, signing for a parcel while the courier hovers. A woman and a young boy are looking at some photos on the wall of animals that have come through the Ark, maybe waiting for Frieda to become free.
I glance at them as I pass. The boy is maybe six or seven, with neat brown hair. He’s obviously into dinosaurs because he’s holding a model of one in his hand, and his green T-shirt alsobears theJurassic Parklogo. He has a large bruise on his left cheekbone that’s yellow and green, so maybe a week old.
The woman is late twenties, probably, average height, and slender, dressed in stone-colored shorts and a light-blue T-shirt. She has gentle curves. Long brown legs. Her light-brown hair is up in a scruffy bun. As I pass, she looks at me. Wow—she has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, the color of the Pacific on a summer day, bright blue with a hint of green. They have to be lenses, surely? When the boy looks at me, though, his eyes are the same color. Not lenses, then. Mother and son, presumably?
I lift the flap of the desk and go behind it to the staff-only area, nod good morning to Frieda, and investigate my cubbyhole. There’s a handful of post, and I rifle through the envelopes, fighting the urge to turn and look at the woman again.
The courier heads out of the door, and Frieda says, “Right, sorry about that. You were saying you’re at the Ark for the next few weeks?”
“Oh, yes.” The woman pronounces it ‘yis,’ so she’s a Kiwi. Her voice is surprisingly low and smooth. “I’m a friend of Beth—we met when we were taking our Veterinary Nursing Diploma in Auckland. I’m staying in Sunrise Bay over Christmas, providing some cover for staff on holiday.”
“Oh, that’s where Cullen is living at the moment. Maybe he could show you around.” Frieda glances over her shoulder at me. “This is Isla Markham. She’s new to the area.”
The Ark is a small community that Noah likes to call a family. He’s keen to encourage us all to work together to make sure everyone feels comfortable, which is why Frieda suggested I show the woman around. But with my new determination to leave before Christmas, the last thing I need is to babysit a new employee.
Especially such an attractive one…
Isla obviously senses my hesitation. “Oh, that’s okay, I’m sure you’re very busy. We’ll be fine.”
“It’s not that,” I reply. “I…” A movement out the corner of my eye makes me look over, and I stiffen as I see Max bending down, stretching out a hand to Ghost beneath the table. “Don’t,” I bark, dropping the post and darting around the desk. “He doesn’t like strangers.” Ghost has never bitten anyone; he’s more likely to shy away, but kids can be unthinking with animals, and if the boy were to frighten the dog, there’s always a small chance that Ghost might react negatively.
As I approach them, though, I slow and eventually stop. Max has lowered a hand to Ghost’s head, and the German Shepherd is looking up at him, quiet and calm. Then, shocking me, the dog licks his hand.
“Good boy,” Max says, completely unaware how unusual this is.
Isla comes to stand beside me. “Max has a gift when it comes to animals.” She bends next to her son and holds her hand out to Ghost. He sniffs it and licks her hand, too, then rolls onto his side and lets them stroke his belly. He hasn’t done that for a whole year.
“Like mother, like son,” I comment. I’m rewarded with a glance of those amazing eyes, and a quirk of her lips. “We have a vet here who has a talent with animals like that,” I tell them. “Hal King, who runs the Animal Welfare Team. We call him the Dog Whisperer.”
Max giggles. “That’s funny.”
“It’s very rare. Ghost doesn’t normally let anyone except me stroke him like that.”
I also drop to my haunches next to them and look at Max. The dinosaur in his hand has giant claws like scythes.
