“My name is Brooklyn. Uh… Arthur asked me to come by, and?—”
“Arthur? Do you know where he is? He tore out of here, and I haven’t been able to reach him, and Mario’s out sick. I’m done with my shift, and I have to get to my night class, but I can’t just leave. But I’m writing a big exam. I can’t be late…” She bit her lip.
“Well, then my timing’s perfect. Arthur asked me to do evening feedings.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” Her eyes brightened, looking so happy that I choked back the words “Arthur got shot,” Someone else, someone closer to her, could pass along that news. After all, she’d want to know if Arthur was okay, but I had no clue, and there was nothing she could do right now. Let her write her exam.
He has to be okay…
“Do you know the routine?” she asked.
“No. I run a local doggie daycare though, so I’m good with the critters.”
“Cool! Come on, come on.” She hustled me down a hallway. “It’s all written down, but I’ll show you quickly. I’m Vicky, by the way.” She gestured for me to follow her.
So, I did. And she took me through everything with such speed that I was breathless. Kitchen, food, feeding list, bowls, runs, cat room.
Then she handed me the keys and was gone.
I couldn’t blame her for leaving, although I did wonder about her giving keys to a stranger. She must’ve really been stressed about that test. Although probably there wasn’t much to steal, unless I wanted to take off with a mixed-breed pit bull. And, as I’d said, Arthur sent me. It seemed like “Arthur” was a magic word to earn her trust.
I carried the list with me as I fed the various animals in the kennels. Each dog got their meal. I took time to read the chart on each door, focusing on the behavior notes like “Escape artist” and “He will jump on you” and “Very timid. Don’t approach.” I smiled at one that said, “Super friendly but will shark-bite for treats; watch your fingers.” This I understood. This I was good at—runs full of dogs with their tails up or down, wagging or still, ears pricked or flattened, approaching or hanging back, eyeing me or looking away.
Running a doggie daycare meant I’d had to get adept with dog body language. For the first time in an hour, I felt grounded and competent. While the dogs ate, I did the cats. Not my area of expertise, but the instructions were clear. Food, water, each cat litterbox required an evaluation and, in a few cases, fresh litter. The place was cleaner than I expected. Clearly Vicky had taken care of everything to this point.
I wondered if I should try to walk the dogs, and was out inspecting the exercise yard when a battered pick-up with a topper drove up to the side door.
Is that Arthur’s truck? I hadn’t paid enough attention.
The man who swung out was a few inches shorter than me with a shock of red hair. He came toward me, eyeing me with assessing green eyes. “Brooklyn?”
“Yes. Brooklyn West.” I held out my hand and we shook. He looked familiar.
“I’m Colin Reynolds. We met when Phillip picked up Wally, remember? You took care of the little Yorkie back in the summer. My husband, James, is Arthur’s best friend. He’s at the hospital with him now.”
“How’s Arthur? Is he okay?” I demanded.
Colin frowned. “I wish we knew. He’s getting a cat scan or something. They won’t say anything even to James. He sent me here to take care of evening chores, because I hate hospitals.”
I did too, so I knew better than to ask him why. “I made a start. Everyone’s fed. But not walked.”
“What about Arthur’s dogs?”
“Uh? Arthur’s?”
“Come on.” Colin led the way back into the building. “Let me introduce you to his menagerie. Up these stairs.” He headed toward the second floor up a narrow steep flight of stairs. “This is Arthur’s apartment, and these are…” He pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the door. “The drama brigade.”
A big black lab galumphed over and tried to leap on Colin, then at the last minute swerved to land huge paws on my chest.
I caught those bear-sized front feet with the ease of long practice, aiming the dog back to four on the floor.
“Ebony, off,” Colin ordered.
A beagle, sitting by the doorway into a small kitchen, howled in our direction with flop-eared pathos.
“That’s Twain, lying about how starved he is. The little chihuahua mix is Chili, and the cat—” Colin spun in a circle, then pointed at the top of a bookcase.
A longhaired Siamese-like cat peered down at us with scornful pure-blue eyes.
