Page 2 of You and Me, For Real
I come to Brutus’s kennel, a short and stocky brown-and-white American Staffordshire Terrier. He eagerly wags his tail, his chocolate eyes pleading with me to pick him. I’ve been working with him on a few commands, and he’s responded well to instruction.
“Brutus, sit.” He immediately follows my command, his tail still thumping against the concrete, his excitement uncontainable. I hold up my finger. “Stay.” I unlock the cage, still holding my signal. His tail thumps impossibly faster and his body wiggles slightly, but he remains sitting. He allows me to place the slip leash around his neck. “Good boy.” I reach into my pouch and retrieve a treat, which he gobbles in one chomp.
Post-treat, Brutus thinks he’s won and bursts out of the kennel. I respond to his reaction with calm and strength, gripping his leash. “Brutus, stay.” Despite his excitement, he obeys, halting his tugging. “Good.” I made the right selection.
“How about you grab Starla?” I point to a couple of kennels down where a sweet and gentle, but elderly (for a shelter), spaniel lies in her pitiful excuse for a bed. She’s six, turned in by a woman who was moving into a nursing home and could no longer care for her.
Once Starla is leashed, the four of us soldier down the hallway, my heart palpitating as though I’m headed into battle. And a battle it is because half my brain is screaming to run. Escape. Hide. I move robotically toward the entrance of the shelter, dodging the mobile crates we’re forced to use due to the shelter overextending its max capacity. I’d bring all the dogs home if I could, but as it stands, I have my fair share of troubles—cramming not only my own dog, Teddy, but also two young fosters into my measly sized apartment.
I inhale one more gigantic breath through my nostrils before confidently striding through the swinging doors into the welcome center where the news crew waits. At least, this is what it internally feels like, but brains lie. The accuracy of this impression is proven false when Marissa pushes my back.
“Come on. You’re walking slower than a three-legged sloth.”
Bossy little thing. So much for superiority around here.
Lynn’s silver bangs swoop to the side as she turns toward our entrance. She maintains her smile for the camera, yet somehow manages to make her eyes say,“Trust me.”
You know those dogs that dig in their hind legs and stretch out their front paws to resist getting into the bathtub? Yeah, that’s me.
Only, there is no carpet to resist against, nor dirt to dig my heels into, so Marissa easily pushes me forward like I’m a shopping cart and she’s onSupermarket Sweep.
“Ah. Here we go.” Lynn extends her arm to welcome us into their circle.
You can do this, Ashton, you can do this. For the dogs. They need you.
I force my face into a smile, bile rising into my throat. My armpits are noticeably damp. A trickle of sweat runs down my back. My throat tightens. My eyes dart to the blinking red lighton the camera. Are they filmingright now? Is this live? No one said anything about this being live.
“Aw, they’re just adorable, aren’t they?”
My brain registers that the reporter has spoken. She’s a woman not much older than me with brown hair cropped short and styled in curls at the end. She bends and greets Starla, who had raced around obedient Brutus like she was coming to the final curve of a racetrack.
Marissa shoots me a look that says,“What’s wrong with you?”
I thought I’d worked through this, but having a camera shoved in my face is quickly proving me wrong.
The reporter gestures to Brutus. “What a calm boy this big guy is.”
Lynn jumps in, filling in for my awkward social gap. “Yes, he’s been with us a couple of weeks. Ashton has been working on commands with him. He’s been a great student, but then again, he has a great teacher.” She winks at me.
As ifthiswill soften the non-existent and yet beaming spotlight now shining on me. Really, Lynn?
“Impressive.” The reporter bends to scratch behind Brutus’s ears. I note how impeccable her dark pantsuit is and worry about the dog hair souvenirs she’ll leave with.
“Ashton is quite talented with dogs.” Lynn draws the reporter’s attention again.
My face heats. I know where she’s going with this—the segue into my rescue’s mission. We’ve practiced this.
I’m not ready. I’m not ready.
“She’s planning to open her own nonprofit animal rescue with a focus on rehabilitating dogs with behavioral issues. That is, once she secures funding. We could certainly use the help off-loading some of our animals here at the California Bay AnimalShelter.” She smiles at the camera, delivering our rehearsed line flawlessly.
The reporter’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows elevate up her forehead. “Oh, really? What’d you say your name is?”
I swallow a pile of rocks, panic tightening my chest. My heart accelerates. My vision narrows. My stance wobbles.
What if Mom sees this? Or Cecily? Is this really worth the risk?
“Ashton Reid.” Lynn’s cool hand clasps over mine. My brain registers the slow release of the leash from my grip, transferring to Lynn’s.
