“And the dogs who don’t get taken in?” I ask.
Eva shakes her head, and her expression haunts me. She doesn’t have to say a word.
I know.
They will be euthanized.
I think of all the dogs I’ve come to know and care for. They’re all good animals. They deserve a home.
“Eva, if anything changes, anything, like if someone turns up to take them or you’re told to get out, call me. Okay?”
“But—”
“Call. No one can kick you out with such short notice, and I can help to rehouse, at least temporarily.”
I doubt Demyan will be pleased that I’m thinking about his grounds. Ilya may not be up for that, either, but I don’t care. If I need a place to put them temporarily, I’ll do it.
“Promise me?” I ask.
Eva nods. “I promise.”
The shelter’sall I can think about when I get home. The idea of using these grounds and Ilya’s as places to house the animals is a good stopgap, but it’s not an answer. I’m assuming there are laws, and there will need to be people to look after them all.
The real purpose of a shelter is to find the animals homes. I still like the idea of having a place where they can live out their days in comfort if they aren’t adopted, and I can do that down the road. Cats, dogs, other pets.
But that’s an end-game kinda thing, when all other options are gone.
I don’t think starting there is the right way, but shelters that have aspects of those kinds of places may be. Shelters that allow the dogs dignity, kennels, spaces to run, a safe home until their human chooses them is.
Right now, I need to help Eva and the dogs.
Considering letting them live here and at Ilya’s for now and turning those spaces into something like I’ve got in mind is a perfect idea. I could make that happen by buying the block of land.
I knock on Demyan’s office door, and he looks up at me in surprise.
“Alina?”
We’re both wary for different reasons, but I step inside, taking a breath.
“It’s about Albert.”
“The beast who bit me?”
I scowl at him. “You were hurting Ilya. And I see you trying to get back in Albert’s good books by sneaking him treats.”
“What about him?”
“I’ve been volunteering at the shelter I got him from, only the landlord’s kicking the shelter out?—”
“That’s sad,” he says, “but what’s it got to do with me?”
“The landlord’s been trying to offload the block of land for years, on and off. I can come at him with an offer, but I’d need a chunk of my trust fund.”
“How much?”
There’s a lot of money in there. More than I could ever use, even if I was given a quarter of it. The landlord would drool over a quarter, and if I offered more, he’d give me his firstborn.
“Half.”
