4. Sam
4
SAM
When Seth invited us to the wedding, and Mr. Jacobson closed his campground just for us, we all decided to give back to the community as a thank you. Each of us picked an activity. I chose cooking for the community, but Pete picked animals. He originally wanted to do something with the youth since that’s his thing, but he didn’t want to form relationships that he couldn’t commit to, and since we’re so far from home, he felt like it wouldn’t be a good idea. The local animal shelter is overrun with dogs, like a lot of shelters around here, and they asked for help getting some of the pups adopted, so Pete grabbed on to that idea. Our mission today? Take some adorable pictures with puppies. It’s not exactly a hardship.
Pete and Reagan already have a dog and a cat at home, which is plenty for them. She gives him a serious look as he kisses her goodbye. “Don’t come home with any pets unless you can help it,” she warns.
“We don’t need any pets either,” Peck reminds me with a glare.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” I ask, hoping she might change her mind. Friday’s going because… puppies! Seth and Gabby are coming too since this week is all about them. We’re leaving the kids behind, though, because if they came… well, let’s say we’d all end up with a new family member or two.
Peck shakes her head and leans back in her chair, her eyes half-closed. “I-I want to sit in the sun and enjoy the peace and quiet,” she says, soaking in the tranquility we never get back in New York. Out here, instead of honking horns and screeching tires, we have humming bugs, ducks that quack as you walk by them, and the soft rustling of leaves in the trees.
“Have fun!” Peck calls after us as we pile into the van. Star and Finny are sitting next to her. The kids are already wading in the water while they wait for someone to tell them they can jump in.
In the van, I settle into the leather seat, its scent mixing with the faint smell of freshly mowed grass and fall. I glance at Pete, grinning. “Want to bet how many dogs we’ll end up bringing home?”
He makes a zero with his fingers and holds it up confidently. “None,” he declares.
Friday smacks his hand away. “If I want to come back with a puppy, there’s nothing you jackasses can do to stop me.” She’s dressed in full Friday fashion: a vintage dress covered in pink and black skulls, a short poofy skirt, stockings that look more like cobwebs than fabric, and chunky combat boots. Somehow, she makes it work effortlessly.
“Nice boots,” I say. “They remind me of the ones Em was wearing when Logan brought her home that first night—kicking and screaming.”
Friday winks. “Thanks, they’re my ‘kicking ass and taking names’ boots.” She pulls out a clipboard and clears her throat dramatically. “Here’s the plan: Pete and Sam, you’re on doggie baths.” Pete groans, but he already looks resigned to the task. “Paul and Matt, you’ll be in the kitty cuddle room. Your job is to make the cats look super adoptable.”
Paul raises a brow. He snorts. “Fine. I like pussies.” It’s not often that we don’t have kids around, so it’s somewhat startling to hear him say that.
Friday stares at him until he mutters, “What? I do.”
“I know you do, but we don’t have to talk about it right now,” she says with a hard stare. Then she starts to bark orders in true Friday style. “Seth and Gabby, you’re walking dogs. Try to look romantic while you do it, will you? Give the people what they want. A little love-sick action.”
Seth salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Edward leans forward, looking both eager and slightly worried. “What about me? What’s my assignment?”
Friday grins, flipping to the last page of her clipboard. “You, my friend, are on poop patrol.”
Edward’s face falls. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” She slaps the clipboard shut with a flourish. “Somebody’s got to clean up after all these furry little beauties, and today, that someone is you. Unless you want to trade with Sam or Pete.”
“I’d rather shovel shit than bathe dogs,” he admits.
At the shelter, the chaos begins almost immediately. Pete and I are ambushed by a golden retriever mix with the boundless energy of a caffeine-fueled rocket. He’s mid-bath, but this dog is having none of it. Water splashes everywhere, soaking Pete, who looks like he’s been wrestling a wet, wriggling tiger. Soap suds cling to his hair and clothes, dripping into his eyes. “Why is he still wet?” Pete yells over the deafening barks echoing off the cement walls.
“Because he keeps shaking!” I shout back, struggling to control a hose that seems to have a mind of its own. Water sprays wildly, reminding me of the time a firefighter dropped a fire hose on our street, and it took three people to catch it as it slithered wildly across the ground. “It’s like Niagara Falls in here!”
Friday starts snapping pictures on her phone. I feel the buzz of my own phone in my pocket and pull it out to find that she’s tagged me in a post. The caption reads, “Who looks better in bubbles? Sam or the golden mix that’s available for adoption?” The picture shows both of us covered head to toe in bubbles. The dog looks adorable. His tongue is hanging out, and his eyes are bright and mischievous. Me? Not so much. She has included a link so people can donate to the shelter.
“People are arriving,” Friday calls out as someone approaches her with a question.
Our goal is to get folks to the shelter so they can see the animals and, ideally, fall in love—not so much about us today. I wander from kennel to kennel, taking the time to go through each dog’s card and running my fingers down the faded edges of the glossy documents. The harsh smell of disinfection and moist fur mixes with the sound of dogs barking and gentle, pitiful whimpers.
Then, in the back corner, away from the chaos, I spot him—a mid-sized dog with dull, matted fur and sad, weary eyes. He’s curled up on a small mat, barely lifting his head as I approach. I pick up his card and read it. His owner passed away, and he was surrendered 72 days ago by the owner’s son, who didn’t want him. The words sting more than I expected.
“When he got here, he was really social. He loved people,” a quiet voice says from behind me. I turn to see a shelter worker who is wearing a polo with the shelter’s logo on it. She watches the dog with the eye of a person who has seen too many bad endings.
“How old is he?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the echo of barking dogs in the neighboring kennels.
“He’s only five,” she replies, sadness lining her words. “But the noise here is stressing him out. His health is deteriorating because of the stress. He’s just not thriving.” She clicks her tongue softly. “My boss says if we don’t find a home for him soon, we’ll have to make a tough decision.”
I look at the dog, who is completely ignoring my presence. His kennel is spotless, but he looks tired—like he’s given up. “Why hasn’t anyone wanted him?”
She shrugs, her shoulders heavy with defeat. “He sheds. He’s not a puppy. He doesn’t come to the cage door like the others. He’s just... tired. People want a dog that’s excited to see them, and he’s not even trying anymore.”
“Can I go in with him?” I ask, feeling a tug at my heart.
“Sure,” she says, unlocking the gate. I step inside, and the dog barely glances at me. His eyes are dim, his spirit clearly battered by months of neglect. I sit down beside him, leaning against the cold, concrete wall of the kennel. I don’t reach for him or try to pet him; I just talk.
“I don’t want a dog,” I tell him quietly.
He glances up at me with a look that seems to say, “Good, because I don’t want an owner.”
“But I’d like to help you find a good home.”
“His name is Chance,” the attendant says from the other side of the gate. Her eyes are bright, and I swear she blinks back a tear as she watches us.
“Chance, huh?” I murmur, looking at him. “Is that your name? You need one of those, don’t you, boy?”
For the first time, he lifts his head, and our eyes meet. I can almost feel the weight of his past—the pain of losing his family and being left behind. This kennel, noisy and cold, is a far cry from the warm, quiet home he probably once knew. I imagine him curled up on a rug in front of a fireplace, and I guess that lying on concrete is nothing like his home.
I pull a treat from my pocket and hold it out. He sniffs it but doesn’t take it, blowing out a heavy breath before laying his head back down. I lie down next to him, right next to his bed, feeling the hard concrete under my back. It’s clean, and after an hour of wrestling that golden retriever, the state of the floor of the kennel is the least of my worries. We sit in silence. I know that if I move too fast or try too hard, he won’t react the way I hope.
Minutes pass, and then I feel a cold, wet nose nudge my hand. I scratch under his chin, and he inches closer, just enough for me to cover his head with my hand and give him a good rub. I gently scruff the top of his head, and slowly, he nestles into my side, tucking himself under my arm as if he might think I’m trustworthy. His eyes flicker up to mine, hopeful but wary.
“You want to go home with me?” I ask, a smile tugging at my lips.
He sneezes right in my face, and I laugh, wiping it away with my sleeve. From behind me, I hear the distinct clomp of Friday’s combat boots on the concrete. “Hey, Friday!” I call out.
She approaches the kennel cautiously. “What are you doing in there, Sam?” she asks, her tone amused but wary.
“Just bonding,” I say with a shrug.
She snaps a picture of me and Chance.
“Post it with the caption, ‘Somebody give Chance a chance, please.’”
Chance, feeling braver, climbs halfway onto my lap, resting his head on my chest. He sighs deeply, his breath warm against my neck.
“Done!” Friday announces, her voice softening as she watches us.
I stay with Chance for the next hour, just petting him, letting him feel what little comfort I can give. Then, the kennel door rattles. “Sorry to interrupt, but someone wants to meet Chance. I don’t want him to miss his opportunity.”
“Can I come with him?” I ask, reluctant to let go.
“Of course.”
I attach a leash to Chance’s collar, and he follows me, his steps slow and unsteady, like he’s forgotten what it feels like to walk beside someone who cares about him. We enter the meeting room, where a woman and a quiet teenager are sitting. She speaks softly to the teen. The boy looks around nervously, his eyes darting everywhere but at us. I can tell right away he’s struggling in this new space—maybe he’s on the spectrum, maybe just shy—but there’s something familiar in the way he avoids eye contact.
The woman smiles at me, hopeful but reserved. “I saw your post. We’ve been looking for the perfect dog for our son. He needs a companion—someone quiet, like him. I read that Chance is calm, and we were hoping it might work.”
The boy sits down and waits, quietly observing Chance. After a moment, he pulls a book from his backpack and starts reading aloud, his voice soft and steady. Chance watches him, ears perking slightly, and then, slowly, the dog inches closer. Within half an hour, the boy is resting against Chance, who’s curled up beside him, content to be his pillow as the boy reads.
“We want him,” the woman says, her voice clear and strong.
My eyes sting, and I blink back, the tears threatening to spill. “Good. He deserves this.”
“How much is the adoption fee?” she asks.
The attendant tells her, and she winces.
“He has been sponsored,” I blurt out. “Someone already paid his adoption fee.” It’s me, but still. “And he comes with food for a year.”
She smiles. “Really?” She blinks, surprised. “It’s just that we’re paying for PT and OT, and all the therapies are so expensive,” she rushes to explain.
I won’t be taking a dog home today, but someone will be taking Chance, and I couldn’t be happier to pay for the adoption fee and the food.
I sit with Chance and the boy while the mom does the paperwork. There’s no doubt in my mind that this boy deserves this dog, and this dog deserves this boy. After watching them together, I know it will work out.
“I’m so glad you climbed into that kennel,” the attendant says as I watch them walk across the parking lot. The dog looks eagerly up at the boy, ready for a new adventure.
“Me too,” I say. “Thank you for letting me.”
“We’ve almost cleared the shelter in the last two hours,” she says. “People came to see you guys at work, but they took dogs and cats home. We even adopted out two ferrets and a chicken.” We sponsored all the adoptions today. Not just Chance.
I blow on my knuckles and pretend to rub them on my shirt. “All in a day’s work.”
Edward yells from where he’s still scooping poop inside the fenced area. “If you’re done over there, come help me with this shit!” he says.
I chuckle. “Be right there.”
As I walk through the shelter, I see Paul and Friday scrubbing cat cages. The shelter manager has taken over Friday’s picture-taking duties. Friday has a waterproof apron over her dress. Matt and Logan are cleaning kennels, and Seth has a kitten suckling on his shirt, which he doesn’t seem to mind.
I go and take over scooping poop from Edward so he can have some time with the few animals that are left. He gladly hands over his shovel and pail.
Before the end of the day, the shelter manager tells us she wants us to take pictures of ourselves with a group of puppies that just got surrendered. They want to use the photos for their yearly calendar. We all peel off our shirts—except for Friday, of course—and then we let puppies crawl all over us for about an hour. When we’re done, even Friday looks a little worse for wear, but it was worth it.
I already did my good deed for today. I gave someone a Chance.