The math was familiar. Good people, impossible circumstances, dogs that never found homes because life was too complicated.
“What’s her name?”
“Rosie.”
“Tell Rosie I’ll keep an eye out for the right dog. One that’s okay with alone time. They exist.”
Colin’s expression shifted—hope mixed with disbelief. “You’d do that?”
“It’s my job,” Alyssa said, though both of them knew it was more than that.
He looked at Alyssa, hesitant. “How’d you end up running a whole dog rescue?”
A question Alyssa had fielded a thousand times, but still not one she’d practiced an easy answer for. “Lucky timing,” Alyssa said. “I had money, a patch of land, and nowhere better to be.”
He nodded, as if that was the kind of answer he respected. “You like dogs more than people?”
Alyssa smiled wide. “Depends on the people. And the dogs.”
Colin laughed. “Fair. If you ever get a Rottweiler, let me know. She’s obsessed.”
Alyssa finished her coffee and made a note to check if they had any Rotties coming in from the next intake. As she left, Colin held up his mug in a mock salute. “Good luck out there.”
She headed back to the main atrium to supervise the first “Paws for a Break” event. The room was already buzzing. Employees stood in a semi-circle, each with a rescue at their feet, except one lone man in IT who sat cross-legged and let a French bulldog walk in slow, determined circles across his lap.
Alyssa watched as Joy kicked off the session with a speech about “Crawford’s tradition” and “the unique joys of caninecompanionship.” She didn’t tune out the way she did with most corporate platitudes; instead, she watched the faces in the room. Some looked sceptical. Some glowed.
Joy wrapped up and gestured for Alyssa to say a few words. It was the kind of thing she usually hated, but she’d gotten good at it—another quirk of running a rescue, the constant need to justify your existence to donors and sponsors and irate pensioners who just wanted “a proper dog.”
She kept it simple. “Thanks for inviting us and our mutts. You already know most of what you need to know, but if you have questions, just ask. Or better yet, ask your dog. They’re the experts.”
It landed, just enough, and there was a round of light applause.
Afterward, as the employees dispersed to their stations, Alyssa caught sight of a young woman lingering by the snacks table. She had the stiff posture of a person who’d been promoted into a job they didn’t actually want, and a border collie attached to her wrist via a thick leash. The collie was doing its best to look regal but kept sneaking glances at a plate of mini croissants.
“You’re Gemma?” Alyssa asked, recalling the name from the roster.
The woman startled, nearly dropping the leash. “Yeah! Gemma Ng. HR.”
“How’s Skye doing?”
Gemma gave a shaky laugh. “She’s smarter than me, I think. I already feel like I’m disappointing her.”
Alyssa recognised that expression. New volunteers wore it, first-time foster parents wore it—people who desperately wanted to do right by an animal but didn’t trust themselves. The look of someone told too many times they weren’t good enough.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Alyssa sat cross-legged on the floor. Skye immediately investigated her pockets. “Dogs don’tcare if you’re brilliant. They just want to know you’ll be there tomorrow. That’s it.”
Gemma’s shoulders dropped an inch before sitting next to Skye, mirroring Alyssa. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Skye doesn’t care if you’re the best handler in the world. She just wants to know you’ll be there tomorrow.”
Gemma looked at Skye, who sat politely, tail sweeping the floor. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
Alyssa held out her hand to greet the collie, who promptly shoved a cold nose into her palm. “She just needs a job to do. Collies hate sitting still. Give her a task—carry your files, fetch your phone, something with purpose.”
Gemma’s eyes widened. “She can do that?”
