Page 18 of Artfully Wild
“What?”
“Share your message,” she repeats. “You know, what you do and why you do it. Take videos of the wildlife you rehabilitate and release. Show them.”
“I don’t really do wildlife.”
“Yes, you do,” she rebuts.
“I don’t think stray cats count.”
She releases a sigh. “You rehabilitated a fox once.”
“I pulled a few quills out of his paw from stepping on a porcupine. That’s hardly rehabilitation.”
“Say what you want, but people online would go insane for that sort of content. And I know it happens rarely, but when it does, record yourself and talk about it.”
“And what would that do exactly?”
She rolls her eyes like it’s supposed to be obvious. While I do feel bad she’s having to explain this like I am a child, I truly don’t understand the world of social media and I wouldn’t even know where to start with something like that.
“Well, the wildlife videos would get people’s attention and then the rest would follow. It would convince people to adopt. It would give you an audience. For both your business and for the auction,” she explains like it should have been something I thought of on my own.
“People live for that kind of shit. If it would gain traffic to your website then we make one, and more people might want to adopt if they see the guy who is behind the scenes running the whole thing. People who are serious will travel across the country to adopt and the ones who can’t will make donations. I’ve seen places like yours go viral online and get popular before.”
“So strangers donate money to people they don’t know online?”
“Exactly.”
“That seems…well, strange.”
“Parasocial relationships at its finest.” I open my mouth to ask what the hell that means, but decide against it. The rest of what she’s saying makes sense though. I’ve heard of funds being raised online to help people rebuild their homes after a fire or for funeral expenses for a family member who passed unexpectedly. I never thought to try to get donations for the shelter. It didn’t really seem like something people would want to do and I wouldn’t feel justified asking money from strangers.
“You never know,” she continues. “Share the animals and a day in the life of a vet. It could be exactly what you and this auction needs.”
Ask her.I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, my heart rate is increasing like I’m about to jump off the edge of a cliff. Okay, imagining that makes this seem much easier, so I don’t hesitate. “Would you help me?”
“Charlotte’s more in the know with that kind of stuff. I only know the basics. So you should ask her,” she says, gently—not dismissing me, but pointing me in the direction of someone who can better help me.
I think about all the things that still need to be done. It already seems impossible to finish everything, let alone adding in building a website and making content for the shelter. It’s a lot more work than I have time for. Would there even be a point to creating any social media for the shelter at this point? Two weeks doesn’t feel like enough time to gain attention for anything. But I guess getting it out there a little bit is better than nothing and could help in the future.
It’s something I’m going to have to seriously consider, because I can’t keep letting the shelter animals bunk at my house. It was fine in the beginning, because I really did havethe room, but there’s only so many animals a two bedroom house can take when one bedroom is mine and the other is used for a bulk of my mom’s storage. She doesn’t have much room at the flower shop, so she stores a lot of old products in my spare bedroom that used to be my childhood bedroom. Old balloons, vases that have gone out of style, fake flowers that are now missing petals, and boxes of sample items she didn’t end up using in her displays leave no extra space. Once dad took the chance to travel to Namibia to help build a wildlife rehabilitation center, Mom decided to move into an apartment to let me have my own space, leaving me the house a few months ago.
She didn’t see a point in living in a big house by herself for most of the year between my shifts at the clinic and work at the shelter and Dad being gone for so long once his outreach became long term. Even though I insisted she stay, I think part of her wanted her own space too. The takeover started when she still lived here and the animals were beginning to wear her out, even though she would never admit it.
Now I wonder what I would do with all the extra space in the house. Without the animals there, that also means the kennels would be gone, bird cages would disappear, a candle would actually make a difference and I could walk around without almost falling to my death over a dog toy. I imagine Skylar curled up on my old couch, the one we used to sit on when we were kids and she’d come over to watch a movie—we’d sit close together, sharing a blanket and a bowl of popcorn, but we never crossed the friendship line.
I allow my thoughts of what it would be like to cross over that imaginary line into my head again—there’s no dog sitting there, ready to interrupt us, our pinkies start to touch in between us, her breathing quickens and we both start to ignore the movie and try to figure out what the other person is thinking and whether or not we should move closer or slowlyinch our fingers in the space between us until they brush together.
A loud squealing sound comes from the truck’s brakes, startling me from my thoughts and pulling me back into the car. She slows to a stop in front of the studio, but doesn’t immediately move to open the door when she takes the keys out from the ignition. I think about our moment in the storage room, and before I can muster up the courage to bring it up myself, she hurries out of the truck like she senses what I was going to say. The deep blush at the base of her neck confirms it, so I take her hesitation in stride and start helping her unload the supplies upstairs and into her studio space.
Between the two of us, it takes three trips and each time we pass each other on the stairs, she’s careful not to let her arms come into contact with mine, maneuvering her body around me. I knew she would need plenty of supplies—I’ve seen her paint before—but that doesn’t change the fact I’m surprised by the amount of stuff she actually needed.
And how much all of it cost. It’s apparently very expensive to have an artistic career. I never knew paint brushes could be so expensive. It’ll be worth it though on two counts.
One: seeing Skylar in her element and seeing her work valued and appreciated when people bid on her work at the auction. And two: with the social media idea, I could convince her to showcase her work to getherthe exposure along with me. She doubts herself a lot and I think the auction will be a confidence boost for her. Not that she would admit that she needs it by any means, but sometimes we could all use a little bit of help.
As we climb the stairs to the second floor that Hudson and Elias renovated into an apartment for Charlotte, I can feel her eyes on my back. Goosebumps prickle over my arms and I take a deep breath, trying not to think aboutwhatshe’s thinking about. At least Charlotte will be here to run interference sinceit doesn’t seem like she wants to address the tension between us.
We set the rest of our bags down at the top of the stairs and she pulls out her keys to unlock the door. Once it’s open, she shuffles some of the bags to the living room, calling out to Charlotte.
