The problem is my paddles. My paws are tiny. Not much to work with when you’re fighting a flood.
I see a couple humans with flashlights, carving tunnels in the sheeting rain. But mostly the street seems eerily abandoned, especially after the chaos of the park.
The shelter is at the bottom of a slight hill. Rain’s pooled outside the front door, despite a pile of sodden sandbags. A police car is out front, parked at an odd angle.
I find some footing on a large rock near the door. Takes me three slippery tries, but I manage to leap onto the topmost sandbag.
I bark, bark with all I’ve got. But I might as well be voiceless, between the wind and the rain and the howling animals begging for escape.
inside
I pause to listen. I hear humans shouting, and I can make out what sounds like police radio chatter.
But I don’t hear Boss. I’m right here, right at the source. Nothing.
It wasn’t her bark I heard.
She’s dead and I’m crazy and hearing things and drenched and shivering and where is Julia, where is George—
“Hey, little guy.” The door eases open, just a crack.
Every bone in my body, every smart part of my doggie brain, says RUN.
This is an animal shelter. A flooding one, apparently. My sister isn’t here. And I still have to find George and Julia.
The door moves.
Swoop.
The loop comes down around my neck so fast that for a moment I don’t know what it is. It’s like a cowboy’s lasso, the kind in old Western movies I used to watch with Ivan.
But this lasso is at the end of a long metal handle.
And at the end of the long metal handle is a man.
“Stay calm, buddy.” The man eases me, gently but firmly, off the sandbags and through the door.
I’m inside the bow-wow big house.
The hound pound.
The pet pokey.
Oops.
the return of snickers
The man pulls me along with his lasso. I decide not to argue.
We enter a small room stacked with animal-filled metal cages, and I’m assaulted by howls and hisses. The cold water on the floor sloshes as we walk, just skimming my belly.
As bad as my smeller is, I instantly pick up on one distinctive odor.
It’s like the world’s worst perfume, the kind old ladies emit. The kind people spray on their dogs to camouflage their lovely dog stink. The kind—
The kind Snickers wears.
I catch a glimpse of her in an upper cage. Bedraggled bow in her droopy hair.
“Snick baby, fancy meeting you here,” I say. “You look good behind bars.”
“Harebrain,” she replies.
“Hey,” calls a rabbit two cages down. “Watch your language.”
“Mack couldn’t deal with you?” I ask Snickers.
“He brought me here because he thought it would be safer.”
“Seems he may have been mistaken,” I say.
Carefully grabbing my scruff, Cowboy lifts me into an upper cage. He pulls the lasso loose and shuts the barred door. I’m not happy. But it’s a relief to be out of my noose.
“Oh, great, another one?” calls a woman wearing tall rubber boots. She pauses in the doorway. “I thought we were turning people away.”
“People, yes,” says Cowboy. “But this pup came solo.”
“Tick-tock, folks,” says an older, ruddy-faced officer. He’s holding a radio in one hand and a flashlight in the other. “You are running out of time.”
“We hear ya. But first we’ve got to move everybody who’s lower level.” Boots sighs. “Last hurricane we had two feet to deal with. I swear they’re getting worse.”
“Climate change,” says the officer. “What’re ya gonna do?”
“More than we’re doin’,” says Boots. “That much is for sure.”
“I’ll move the dogs from room two,” Cowboy offers. “There are only a couple on the bottom level. We’re outa cages, though. We’ll have to double up.”
“Put that little female in with the new guy,” says Boots. “They look like twins.”
I’m shivering. And it’s not because I’m cold.
I press my hurt nose to the metal bars.
I smell something. I do.
I hear something. I do.
Cowboy returns, dog in arms.
A bark.
That bark.
The door to my cage opens.
“Hey,” I say automatically, even as my heart is already whispering the truth to me, “they call me Bob.”
“They call me Boss,” says the voice, but by now I know, of course I know, and I’m howling with joy.
alive
Thunder claps. Shutters fly. Windows rattle. Water rushes. Dogs whimper. Cats howl. People yell.
And all I can hear is my sister’s voice.
catching up
We lick each other, sniff, yelp, circle, wrestle.
Neither of us was ever the touchy-feely sort.
But sometimes you just gotta let it all out.
“Wow,” says Cowboy, watching us. “You’d think they knew each other.”
tough
Boss isn’t anything like I remember. She’s scrawny and flea covered. Her left ear has a big notch in it. Her fur is dull, her body scarred, her tail cut short.
I’m afraid to ask how that happened.
She’s clearly had it tough, really tough.
“I thought I heard your bark,” I say, “but then it stopped. Figured I was crazy.”
“I was napping.”
“In this chaos?” I ask.
“I can sleep anywhere. It’s a gift.” Boss nibbles on a toenail. “Funny thing is I was having a dream about you. Must’ve caught a whiff of you in my sleep.”
I can’t stop staring. Boss. Here. With me.
“What?” she asks when she catches me looking at her.
“I was just wondering,” I say, “about your life. Do you have . . . you know, anybody?”
“You mean like humans? Nope.” She gives a little flick of her stubby tail. “Never have. Never will.”
“You’ve been on your own this whole time?” I flash on my cushy bed, my lovely food bowl, the way everyone knows just how I like my ear scratches.
“Yep.”
“How’d you end up here?”
“I was out scrounging for food. Just had another litter and I was tired, off my game. Animal control got me.” She licks a nasty cut on her front paw.
“Wait.” My ears prick up. “So . . . you have puppies?”
That would make me an uncle. A dog uncle, on top of being an honorary elephant uncle.
“Had the last batch seven, maybe eight weeks ago.” She scratches at a flea.
“Last batch?” I repeat. “You mean you’ve had others?”
“Yep.”
“What happened to them?”
“Dunno. It’s not like they come home for the holidays, Bob.” Boss lies down on the old towel lining our cage. “Or should I call you Rowdy?” She considers. “Nope. No, I like the sound of Bob.”
“Me too.”