Page 125 of Bodybuilders for the BBW

“They are… mostly. Look, do you mind if I use the dog bath for a second? I need to clean Bronson up and then have a chat with Marg.”

“OK.” She nodded and then held out the keys. “I’ll let her know.”

Washing the dog was a grounding thing. It felt like as I washed away all the crap on his fur, my troubles went through it. Of course, that’s when my phone started to buzz again. Notification after notification came through, and while I was tempted to glance at them, Bronson looked back over his shoulder at me. One look at those amber eyes and I knew I needed to focus on him, not them. I finished washing the shampoo off him and then grabbed some old towels to dry him off.

“Still know how to do that, huh?” Marg stepped out into the caged enclosure where the bath was kept. “And how’s our boy?”

I was doing so well. I hadn’t cried on the way over here, nor when I saw Jo, so why did my eyes start to ache the moment she asked that question? I looked down at Bronson and knew what I was about to say wouldn’t make any sense. He seemed chill, happy even, right now.

“Um… not great. I think I made a mistake about approving his adoption application.”

“So that’s why you’ve got the dog and they don’t?” She didn’t sound especially pleased by that fact. “Dry him off and come into my office and let's see what can be done.”

Minutes later we did just that. I settled down in the chair opposite to her and filled her in on everything that had happened.

“Like they obviously love Bronson.” He looked up at the sound of his name. “But I don’t know what to do. They can’t give up their life to babysit him 24/7, but each time he’s left by himself, he’s retraumatised.” I ran my hands through my hair. “If I get them to agree, could he be put up for adoption again? Maybe someone with land outside the city would take him?” I could almost see it, him running through big open fields. On a farm, he’d be away from all the noise, all the clatter of the city. She let out a sigh. “Or one of the rural shelters…?”

I wasn’t going to like her answer, I could see that by the set of her jaw, but she forced herself to smile.

“Katie, you have always been one of our best volunteers. If we had the money, I would’ve hired you on the spot.” I blinked, never even thinking that was possible. It filled me with a warm glow for a moment, only to be quickly dispelled. “But you and I both know the realities of running a shelter. We don’t take all the dogs that need rehoming. Far too many are put down every day. We wouldn’t have signed up to take Bronson if we knew what he was like temperament wise. You’re right. He does need an environment with low stressors, and that’s not here.”

My throat worked, ready to dispute that, but she continued.

“Trauma does funny things to our nervous systems. It’s supposed to be a motivator to get us the hell out of a situation or to fight against it, but only for so long. Prolonged trauma with no hope of ending changes us. In some ways, our response to stimuli can be a bit like having allergies. My nose thinks rye grass is a terrible toxin that’s going to kill me if I breathe it in, so my nose closes up, it gets hard to breathe and my eyes water non-stop. The response to the threat is actually worse for me than breathing in rye grass. Bronson is the same with whatever triggers him. Being around dogs that bark non-stop…” She looked over her shoulder and we could both hear the rowdy yaps of so many dogs in the shelter cages. “Not feeling safe. That pushes him right back into the same fight-or-flight mental state he was in when we found him.”

“So we find a rural shelter.” My voice started to rise despite my best efforts. “We advertise in the country newspapers, put his picture on the community Facebook pages, and find him a new home.”

Her hands formed a steeple in front of her.

“If Bronson wasn’t adopted by Garrett, he was going to be euthanised.”

“No…” I said, feeling a ridiculous urge to cover the dog’s ears so he couldn’t hear this.

“He has behavioural issues that mean I couldn’t let him be adopted by families with kids or anyone with pocket pets.”

“No. No.”

My tone firmed up as I shook my head.

“Finding a rural rescue will be hard, because so many backyard breeders are pumping out pit bulls that no one wants. Shelters have finite resources and they can’t waste them on yet another pittie.”

“No.”

I glared at her then, as if that would stop the truth bombs being dropped.

“He’s a lovely dog, with you, with someone who understands his needs and is able to cater to them, but you can’t have dogs where you live. It seems like Garrett was having some success with Bronson before today?”

“He was.” I stared at the desk, but I didn’t see the wood printed laminate. Instead, I saw Bronson curled up in a tight ball, face pressed into the corner of the shower. “He’s just not…” I didn’t want to say it, but here I was, forced to face that reality. “He’s just not reliable. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be, but being a nurse…”

“A tough job.” Marg nodded slowly. “With not a huge amount of flexibility, but… If he’s willing to put in the work, I think he’s your best bet. No solution will be perfect…”

Her voice trailed away as I jerked to my feet. This was unconscionably rude, but I didn’t want to hear it. I just didn’t. The part of me that was wide eyed and idealistic about animal rehabilitation had died a horrible death years ago, watching people refuse to pay for simple things that would ease their pet’s pain so often at the vets, or the state some of the surrenders came in to the shelter. But not Bronson. My mind insisted stubbornly on that. I could accept the fate of every other dog, but not him.

“I’ll find one.” My mind started to race, realising now this was my problem to fix. “I’ll find one. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Any time.”

Marg shot me a sad smile as I walked out of her office.

---