“It’s all right,” he murmured softly to the dog at the back of the cage.
“We’re already on a waitlist for a puppy,” she explained apologetically to the volunteer.
In the cage, the greyhound picked its head up. It looked for a small eternity in Ainsley’s open palm, as if the gulf of space between them was as wide as an ocean, rather than measurable in inches. Ris could see it trembling, its dark eyes huge and luminous . . . before taking one small, tentative step forward.
The noise of the shelter fell away.
Ris thought of all of their carefully compiled lists, the pros and cons of each breed, their life together and how a dog would fit into it, all measured and carefully discussed. This was supposed to be a fun day of visiting with rambunctious puppies, a prelude to what their home would be. This was supposed to be a way to make him happy again, to bring back his bright smile and infectious laughter, to help him beAinsleyagain. She thought of the puppy-sized kennel that was waiting in their living room, the treats and toys they had purchased for a small dog with soft feet and no bad memories.
The greyhound took a step forward. Then another. It stopped, trembling. Waiting. On the other side of the cage, Ainsley wasn’t breathing. Waiting.
“This isn’t a puppy,” she whispered, to Ainsley, to herself, to whatever tricksy whim of fate had inspired her to come here today.
“No, he’s not,” the volunteer confirmed pointedly.
The greyhound named Fitz closed the scant distance on shaking legs, inches that were as wide as the sea itself, pressing its forehead into the green, outstretched palm. She was able to hear Ainsley’s breath shudder as he crouched on the floor, an exhalation that came from his toes.
This wasn’t his laughter. It wasn’t his bright, beaming smile, his Ainsley exuberance and joy. This wasn’t the purpose in them leaving the house that day, but Ris knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that this was the dog he was going to want. Its small life upended, all that was familiar gone. Damaged and a little broken, like him.
“What are his main needs?” she asked, because she was nothing if not the consummate planner. There was no SOP for this situation either, but she would do her damnedest to create one. Five years old, five full years away from puppydom. Five years fewer in an already impossibly tiny vial of sand.
“Patience,” the volunteer answered honestly. “Alotof patience, and quiet. They tend to be an anxious breed as it is, and he’s starting from zero.”
Their home was a riot of color and noise and non-stop motion. They were constantly coming and going, his music, her dance, outings in the park, trips to the farmers’ markets, all things they had planned on doing with an energetic little puppy in tow.This isn’t what we planned for.More than that, Ris thought, she didn’t know if they could provide whatthisanimal needed.Well, you’re going to need to figure it the fuck out, and fast.
Ainsley rose up once the dog had turned back into its kennel. “Thank you,” he said quickly to the volunteer. “Thanks, but, uh . . . we . . . we need to talk about things.”
Another thin smile. Ris wondered whether these volunteers had trained themselves out of hope that any of the prospective adopters who came through these doors might actually follow through.
They walked back through the large, noisy room on their way out. She realized they had missed an entire row of smaller dogs, but Ainsley barely slowed enough to glance at them fully. They walked in silence back across the parking lot, still hand in hand, and the silence followed as they slid into the car.
“He’s not a puppy,” she reminded him gently. “You said you wanted a puppy, babe. This dog is . . . not that.”
“I know,” he answered quickly. Ainsley didn’t continue, but she could hear the silentbuthanging in the air.
“You heard what she said. He’s going to need alotof work.”
“Ineed a lot of work,” he countered. “Does that mean you’re going to drop me off at the orc shelter the first time I shit on the floor?”
Ris laughed, but it wasn't the kind of laughter she’d anticipated out of the day. “I promise I won’t. He’s . . . he’s goingto be afraid of everything, Ains. You said a puppy is all you’ve wanted your whole life.”
“I know.”
“We live in a walk-up; this dog doesn’t know how to climb steps. We’re noisy. He needs quiet. We don’t even know anything about greyhounds!”
“Iknow.” That time, his voice thinned, nearly breaking, pulling back before it could do so. His hands were balled into fists, resting on his knees, as if composure was a thing with which he had only the most tentative grasp, one he could barely cling to.
“I just think we need to give this alotof thought, Ains. Because as of this moment, we don’t have what he needs. You heard that human.”
“That’s because his whole life has been temporary,” Ainsley pushed back. His voice shook, the most un-Ainsley-ish he’d sounded since that terrible day in Clover’s crowded office. “Everything he thought he knew, it was all just . . . it wasn’t real, Ris. Crates. Kennels. That’s not real life. That’s the diorama. Of course he’s afraid of everything. The whole world, it’s all brand-new! And the whole worldisfucking scary. Especially when you don’t know who you can trust. He just needs a soft place to land.”
She already knew. Before she even took the car out of park, Ris already knew what the outcome of this would be. This dog was broken, like him. Had lost the person he expected to be there for him . . . like Ainsley. His life had been manufactured by someone else’s design and then abruptly changed . . . the same as the orc seated beside her.
“Okay, babe, I’m hearing you. I just think we need to give it some thought, that’s all. We’ve been researching spaniels; we need to move in a whole new direction now. All our puppy-proofing was for naught. But we can talk it through. That’s what we do best, right?”
It took three days.
Three days of that silence following them home, three days of a little shadow in the corner, the promise of the puppy she knew would never be coming home with them. It thinned the shadow of Tate at her table, so small victories, she considered. She researched with the fervor of someone racing against a clock, as if someone else might come out of the woodwork to adopt Fitz before them.
