Demetrius Johnson was a friend of a friend of Arthur’s, and he’d been roped in to use his software and create an artist’s rendering of the new shelter. The picture showed wide, shiny front windows, the ones on the left full of happy cats climbing on structures, with a small child and their mother standing outside watching. There were green bushes and flowers that were not in the budget along the front. He’d used an attractive font for the “Safe Haven Animal Rescue” sign above the door and given the blank upper-story wall an artistic abstract mural. The whole thing looked beautifully inviting.
“This won’t be a huge shelter,” I added. “The initial capacity is for eighteen adult dogs and eighteen cats at one time. The dog runs are sited toward the back of the property, keeping any noise buffered away from the residential neighbors. Next slide, please.” I’d created a general site plan on a map to show where the building was located. “There is extensive undeveloped property behind the site and a corridor on each side that will provide a future buffer if the town extends development.”
“Quite insufficient,” Van Doren snapped. “I own much of the adjacent property and it’s my plan to build luxury residences on those sites. Residences which, I might add, will bring in far more tax revenue than a nonprofit site with its exemptions. The buyers do not want to have stray dogs running practically in their backyards.”
“I promise,” I said, “that any fencing constructed will be tall enough to keep dogs from escaping.”
“Not my point.” Van Doren pushed to his feet and went to the screen on the wall. “Here, here, here.” He pointed with his cane. “These are already tax-paying residents of Gaynor Beach who deserve the peace of their neighborhood preserved. And these areas here, and here, are lots where I plan to build residences. The proposed shelter’s unacceptably close to these locations.” He waved the cane at the shelter location, then thumped it on the floor for emphasis.
A glance at Shane earned me his crooked smile and encouraging nod, and gave me the confidence to continue. “The building is concrete block under stucco. We have plans for noise-baffling construction in the dog area of the shelter.”Well, we do now.I’d have to look at the cost of ceiling and wall tiles.
The mayor asked, “Do we really need this shelter? We’ve managed without one so far.”
Dr. Louisa stood up in the audience. “May I address that?”
I happily stepped back and waved her toward the mic. I hadnoobjections to letting other people take over.
The vet came forward to address the council. “I’m Louisa Blair DVM. Most of you know me. I’ve been in veterinary practice in Gaynor Beach for almost ten years now. We’ve survived so far with an overworked local foster system who do heroic things, a city pound that can only hold a few animals for a few days, and shelters in other cities forty minutes or more away that are full with their own unwanted and lost pets. With people surrendering their pets in droves to head back to the office, post COVID, every shelter is struggling with capacity.” She brushed back her hair. “When we have no place to keep an unwanted pet, and Pam and Arthur and I have called everyone we can think of unsuccessfully, those pets come to me. And I kill them.”
Van Doren grunted. “Really. No need to be vulgar.”
“The truth isn’t being vulgar.” She glared at him. “Yeah, I can sayput them to sleep,and yeah, we do it as kindly as we can, but the fact remains. I stand there looking down at the dead body of a dog or cat who might’ve found a loving home for years to come, if we’d only had the space and time to save it and work with it.”
Her answer earned a glare from Van Doren. “I’d bet most of the animals you put down are aggressive ones that won’t make good pets anyway.”
“Some are. Most are just scared and need time and care to learn to trust people. Some are sick and there is no one to nurse them to health. Some are elderly, but that doesn’t mean they have to die.”
In the audience, Oscar the vet tech stood and called out, “I’m the one holding the pet and talking to it while she kills it, and I second that.”
The mayor nodded but said, “Please hold all audience comments until it’s your turn at the mic.”
Dr. Louisa turned to the mayor. “We need this shelter. When I heard Mr. Lafontaine was willing to donate a building worth seven million dollars to give us a chance to build one, I… well, I didn’t offer to have his babies, but I might’ve.”
The audience chuckled and several of the council members smiled. Van Doren scowled.
Quentin said, “Thank you, Dr. Blair. Do we have other people interested in commenting?”
Several folks waved their hands, including Arthur. Before Quentin could call on someone, Van Doren gestured at a thin woman in a tailored skirt suit. She hurried to the mic and clasped it between her hands.
“I’m Marjorie Fotheringham and I live barely a few feet from that wine building. And I strongly object to it becoming a shelter. My little dog Veronica hates noise and strangers.”
At those words, I recognized the woman who’d almost gotten Shane arrested. I opened my mouth to say so, but he elbowed me in the ribs. “Shh,” he murmured in my ear. “Let the witch speak.”
“Already,” she went on, “that man—” She pointed dramatically at me. “—allowed a vagrant to live in the building. I was threatened when I complained. Veronica and I deserve a safe, peaceful neighborhood. My home’s worth over a million dollars, and I don’t pay my taxes for you to wreck my peace and drag down the value of my house.”
“Thank you, Ms. Fotheringham,” Van Doren said with oily appreciation. “Your viewpoint issoimportant as a resident actually affected by this hypothetical shelter.”
I gritted my teeth and stood. “If I may clarify?”
The woman looked unhappy, but she’d stepped away from the mic after Van Doren’s praise. I walked around her, careful not to touch her as she stood glaring at me.
“If you look at the map, Ms. Fotheringham’s property is the nearest one behind the boundary marked in green. Adding together the vacant lot between hers and the road, the width of the road, and the parking area in front of the building, the distance from her lot to the front of the shelter is over two hundred feet, about the width of an entire block in New York City. From her property line to the back of the shelter where the dogs will be is close to three hundred feet. From her actual home to the back, even farther.” I turned to look at her. “Additionally, I don’t appreciate having the man I trust to oversee the project called a vagrant.”
Shane pushed halfway to his feet and waved to the crowd. He’d trimmed his hair enough to give it a bit of shape and wore a very respectable new shirt with his best jeans. He sat back down with a grin on his face. The woman huffed loudly.
Van Doren waved a hand as if to brush my comment away. “I’m sure no insult was meant. But that does bring up the further issue of traffic to the shelter. Not just people looking to adopt or window shop the pets, but all kinds of people dumping off unwanted animals. This is a quiet residential area. Traffic will change its character.”
Since I still had the mic, I said, “I guarantee, when it was a wine-tasting venue, there was significantly more traffic.”
