Page 3 of The Billionaire's Pawfect Match

“Ricki?” I call out, not wanting to take my eyes off Finn. The sound of my voice bounces off the kennel walls, mingling with the chorus of barks and whines from the other dogs.

“Yeah, Em?” Ricki’s voice comes from somewhere behind me, where she’s been busy cleaning out the empty kennel.

I straighten up, keeping one hand on Finn’s head. “Could we maybe get one of the volunteer vets to take a look at Finn? I’m thinking he might benefit from anti-anxiety meds.”

There’s a pause where I can almost hear her weighing the request against the shelter’s ever-tight budget. “Sure, we can do that. Dr. Sarah is coming in tomorrow; I’ll ask her to check him out.”

“Thanks.” Relief washes over me, but it’s tempered by the knowledge that pills are only a patch on a larger problem.

Still, if they could smooth out some of the edges for Finn, give him the chance to let go of his fears, even just a little — it’s worth a shot. I’ve trained a lot of dogs that have come through this shelter, and Finn is smart. One of the smartest dogs I’ve met.

But even the smartest dogs, just like the smartest people, are only as good as their limits. There are hellish beasts yapping at this pup’s heels, and I suspect they’re the source of why he wound up on the streets in the first place. He’s a beautiful dog, but my guess is whoever had him couldn’t control him, and they ended up turning him out.

I look into Finn’s eyes again, promising silently that I won’t give up on him. Because someone has to believe in second chances, especially for the ones who have been dealt the harshest firsts.

He starts to get up, but I give him the command to sit. Since he listens right away, I reward him with a treat and a hearty rub on his side. His tail wags so hard it slaps him on either side of his back, making me laugh.

“Good boy, Finn. You did so good today.” I lead him back to his kennel, hating to put him in there. If only I didn’t need to get to my shift at the coffee shop, I would stay around longer and take him and some of the other dogs for walks.

Ricki’s voice breaks through the rhythm of my thoughts, a note of apology in her tone. “Em, before you go… I’ve got some bad news.”

“What is it?” My heart picks up speed, an uncomfortable tightness wrapping around my chest.

She looks at me with those sympathetic eyes that have seen too much surrender and not enough salvation. “The county’s cutting funding for the training program,” she says, the words landing like punches. “We can’t afford to pay as many trainers anymore. We’re gonna keep you on, but the hours will be reduced… about half. I’m sorry.”

A cold wave crashes over me, the implications of her statement chilling me to the bone. Fewer hours, less help for dogs like Finn, less hope. Part-time work here never lined my pockets, but it filled my soul in ways that steaming milk and pouring coffee never could.

“Can they do that?” I ask, though I know the answer. Money talks louder than need — always has.

“They can, and they are.” Ricki’s hand finds my shoulder, a silent show of support. “I’m sorry, Em.”

“Thanks,” I say, but the word feels hollow. This job, this place — it’s my lifeline as much as I am theirs. It gives me some meaning in a world that so often feels empty and dark.

“I still want to volunteer my time to training,” I say through the lump in my throat. “I’ll come in for the same hours, even the ones I’m not paid for.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” I nail her with a hard look, and she knows I’m doing this more for the dogs than anything else. Just like her and everyone else here.

She nods, a smile slipping across her face. “I know. We’re lucky to have you. Hey, I heard Sunshine is doing great in her new home. She’s even started playing fetch.”

“That’s great!” It’s exactly what I need to hear. Another shelter dog whose life we turned around.

We head out of the kennel area and into the main lobby. The front door opens, and another dog — a trembling terrier mix — gets carried in by a volunteer. Its eyes dart around in fear, confusion knotting its brow, and something inside me cracks. One more dog.

One last dog.

We’re at capacity now, bursting at the seams with stories untold, futures uncertain. If anyone brings in another dog before one gets adopted, we’ll have to turn them away. Tell them to put the dog back where they found it.

That sounds cruel, but the only other option is that they take it to one of the kill shelters… where its likelihood of comingout is low. Here, we have a no-kill policy, but that can only be maintained by not overcrowding.

“Another one,” I whisper, more to myself than to Ricki. The shelter feels smaller somehow, every inch of space precious, and every wagging tail a reminder of what we stand to lose.

“Yep,” Ricki replies, her gaze following mine. “And we’ll take care of them, same as always. Somehow.”

“Right. Somehow.” I force the words out, knowing she’s also thinking about all the dogs we won’t be able to take.

I think of Finn, of the tentative trust he’s built with me, and wonder how many more setbacks he can withstand before hope becomes just another empty promise.

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