His orange collar flashes against his black and grey fur, a reminder that he’s found a forever home. His new owners finished the paperwork this morning, and after a 24-hour cool-down period, they’ll be picking him up first thing tomorrow.
Furever Lovedwas my brainchild in all but the name. Tuck ran a contest at the children’s hospital where the kids could invent names for the shelter and vote. A seven-year-old named Willow came up withFurever Loved,and it beatPawsomePetsby a handful of votes. The name’s as cute as she is.
I’m not a sensitive guy, but the day Willow walked in with her parents and said they were adopting a dog to celebrate her remission, I cried my eyes out. They still send me a Christmas card of Willow and their Jack Russell terrier, Bowser, every year. Now Willow’s starting high school, and Bowser’s going grey, but he still looks like the happiest damn dog every Christmas.
I fund the shelter on my own—no fees for adopting an animal. No donations accepted. If someone does donate, we send the donations to another local shelter. Occasionally, Tessa steals a few hundred grand from celebrities whoparticipate in dog fights and donates it to the shelter. She’s the Robin Hood of the Sinclair family.
I hire staff to do home and security checks before any of our dogs get adopted for exactly that reason—dog fights. Sick fucks out there try to adopt puppies from shelters where they can breed the females to pump out litters for fighting, or males as fighting dogs, or worse.
We’ve called the cops on sleazebags trying to adopt fromFurever Loved, and we’ve earned a reputation of not only rejecting adoption applications from those assholes but also actively getting the cops involved. And for a pretty penny, cops are more than happy to haul scum out of their homes and arrest them for facilitating a dog-fighting venture.
Furever Lovedis the biggest donor to the cops’ local softball league—exactly for that reason. In this world, morality doesn’t make a difference. No, money gets you what you want.
“Hello!” Tessa’s sing-song voice echoes from the front door, inciting barks from some of the dogs in the back room.
“Hey.” I return her smile and don’t bother hiding my sketches as she wanders across the welcoming lobby over to the front desk.
“Hard work or hardly working?” she asks as she rests an elbow on the counter and sets her chin in her hand, waiting for an answer.
“Is this work?” I ask, showing her a half-finished sketch of my plans.
“Is that… the Operation game?” Tessa’s eyebrow raises in surprise.
I nod. “Yeah. Like when we were kids.”
“You’re sketching your childhood board games?” Her tone’s skeptical, and I can’t blame her.
But then her eyes land on Merlin, and my sketch is long forgotten as she darts over and fawns over the massive mutt. “Who’s my favorite boy?” Tessa coos as she rubs the top of his head.
Merlin’s pink tongue lolls out the side of his mouth, and he pants. He’s gazing up at Tessa like he’s in total puppy love.
“He found a home this morning,” I tell her.
Tessa squeals with excitement. “Finally! You hear that, boy? You’re going home.”
“You know, there are a few dogs here that could use a home,” I remind her.
“Tris, I can barely take care of myself. No way can I handle another living thing.”
I mean, Tessa’s killed a couple of goldfish before. And house plants. Hell, she managed to dehydrate a cactus.
Maybe she has a point. But she also has a big heart, and sometimes that’s all a dog needs. Well, that and food.
“You’re here all the time,” I point out. “Maybe it’s not a permanent adoption, but you could take one of them to your place. Drive them back and forth? I’m sure Manuel or Stas could look after him here during the day when you’re busy.”
Tessa murmurs a noncommittal “I’ll think about it,” before standing back up and plucking a clipboard from my desk. “Whose getting picked up today?”
“Porsche’s going home with the Brickerson family. They should be here around lunch.”
Tessa shakes her head with a smile. “God, I hope they rename him.”
“Why?”
“You named her after a car.” Tessa shoots me a look that says I’m a complete idiot sometimes.
“Hey, Dad loved those cars.” Cars were a mutual love of ours. While Tuck had his head buried in books and Tessa went through hobbies like she went through clothes, Dad would show me around his mechanic shop. We’d lift hoods and put cars up on racks. He’d shown me how to rebuild a transmission, install a carburetor in a classic hot rod, and change brake pads. I know every part of a car inside and out.
I worked as an unlicensed mechanic after dropping out of high school. In truth, I was a glorified shop hand. It kept food on the table and covered the cost of Tuck’s college textbooks, along with room and board, since my brainiac brother got a full scholarship for tuition. I covered Tessa’s college too until she dropped out. The first thing she did when she learned to successfully hack and cover her tracks was to pay me back for the tuition I’d paid during her first year.
