“Fuck that? I’ll take you.”
“You already took me here. It’s another hour and a half to go back.”
“Relax, man. I have nothing else to do but remind you how clumsy you are.”
And he does. On the way there, we reminisce about a few funny incidents of our past. Like the time he was found by the principal with his arm stuck in the teacher’s vending machine, trying to get me a bag of sour cream chips. Or when I accidentally hit Mr. Swarts, our gym teacher, in the face with a basketball doing free shots—he never let me touch a ball again as long as I stayed in school. And during the trip to Washington? Too many things happened: we got lost and ended up hitchhiking, a nice grandma with a passion for charades drove us back to the hotel; we got drunk and prank-called half of our teachers; we sneaked out ofthe hotel one night and went to a club using our fake IDs, Brad sucked face with a forty-year-old chick who left a huge hickey on his neck. He reminded me how Iaccidentallyfell into a fountain, tore the back of my pants getting out of the subway, tripped on an open manhole, almost fell down in the sewer, and sprayed alcohol in my eyes.
When he parks in front of Pet Manor, we are wiping off our laughing tears from under our eyes. After a big, long hug, Brad leaves, promising to send me a message when he arrives at the airport. I wish he stayed longer, but one day was all the time he could take without skipping football practice.
“Was that your friend from California?” Ren asks me from the shelter’s porch as I make my way toward the entrance.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you give him a tour of the place?”
“He had to go to the airport.” I’ll show him Pet Manor next time. He’ll definitely enjoy it. Animals seem to love him.
“Back to the sunny state.” Ren nods, then changes the topic. “Did you get yourHarry Pottertattoo?”
“Did Ash put you up to it?” I grab the handrail before climbing the three steps to the porch.
“I…put him up to it when he showed me the design a month ago.” He smirks.
“It’s called bitch-craft.”
He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “What is?”
“The art of pissing people off with a smile.”
“Way to treat your savior!”
He is using that line whenever I talk back now. “Lori’s cattiness must have rubbed off on me,” I counter.
A half-smile forms on his lips as he runs his hand through his blond hair.
“I’m out man. George is taking a stroll. Leave the snake door open for him.”
That’s his pet snake, which likes to slither around the locker room inside the pet shelter. George is a…curious boy and very sweet.
“Clover said he’d come later.”
Clover is afreelancer, working with the brotherhood on their bloody side business. I don’t know what he does exactly, but it must be illegal since he’s, well, working with them.
“Did he find a stray?” I don’t know him very well, I’ve met him only a couple of times.
“It’s in his file. He has a pet, Mr. Squashy Pants…or was it Nuts? Just give it a check-up.”
Before I can ask Ren more about this pet, he has already turned his back to me and is walking toward his house. “Later.” He raises his hand in goodbye.
I make my way inside the lobby. There’s a counter with a phone and a calendar. I double-check it, and see Clover’s name–is the only one written there–but no time. We seldom take a look at animals; we are not certified to do it yet. We do have two vets on call, and they come in turns once a month. I should check Clover’s pet file before he arrives. I lift an empty, dirty mug andpass the line of chairs—tripping on one—I open the door to the kitchen to leave it in the sink. It reminds me of the cups I used to leave around my dorm bedroom before Ezra bought me that mug heater. A sudden thought makes me freeze. How did he know I needed one? Did he hear Lori and Ollie talk about my dirty mug cemetery? That doesn’t comfort me, and at the same time, the thoughtfulness of his gesture makes me feel all tingly again. Am I reading too much into it?
I leave the kitchen and walk back into the green waiting room. This time, I move toward the swinging doors, which open—one almost hitting my face—to the long corridor. Pet Manor is the cream of the crop. There’s a large space outside reserved for dog runs and training. Inside, the three rooms on the left are filled with cages—all empty at the moment, a very rare occasion for us. Dare expects a full house soon unfortunately, since the other pet shelters in the vicinity have no vacancies. The first room is the Tiny Critters Cottage for small animals—rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters. The second is the Pooch Palace, and the third is the Cat Colony with shared or individual spaces for cats.
On the right are the exam rooms where the animals are checked upon arrival, and the meet-and-greet room for potential adopters to bond with a pet. Lately, I’ve been thinking about a quiet zone for senior dogs, a low-stress area. I want to pitch the idea to Ren next time.
I get to the end of the corridor, passing the last three rooms, one used for grooming and the other two as nurseries for puppies, kittens, and their mothers, and I leave my stuff in my locker. I put on a pair of green scrubs, and after I’m ready, I stop by the file room to get Clover’s pet file. When I find it in one of the cabinets, I get a papercut from the file edge. I’m sucking on the bleeding skin as I move to the yellow exam room to prepare theequipment I might need for the check-up. But when I open the door, a voice halts my advance.
“Mr. Squashy Nuts, it’s just an examination, don’t turn bitey on me.”
