2. Dario
CHAPTER 2
Dario
What the hell am I doing?
I grip the steering wheel of my parked car, breathing slowly in and out. My therapist has assured me that this is a good idea, and my family agreed enthusiastically. But I can barely take care of myself. What makes them think I can possibly be responsible for anyone else?
Rubbing my chest, I try and calm myself by cataloguing what I can see. I look out at the building attached to the lot. Having grown up in San Diego, the Spanish colonial revival architecture all through Redwood Bay is a familiar sight to me. The cream walls and reddish-brown terracotta roof tiles aren’t all that different from the suburbs of Phoenix, Arizona, either.
Not that Shane ever really let me leave the city much to take the scenery in. He never really let me leave the apartment at all.
Shaking my head, I try and let go of those memories. That’s in the past now. The whole reason for making this move was to get a fresh start. I was lucky enough to get a job reasonably close to San Diego, but it’ll still be an hour’s drive to see most of my family. During the week, I’ll be on my own.
That thought scares me.
So, apparently, this is the answer. I tighten my hands, making the leather on the wheel squeak. The only reason I don’t turn the ignition on and drive the hell out of here is because I know I won’t be able to face my mom’s disappointment if I don’t go through with this.
Instead of bailing, I close my eyes and take several long deep breaths. “I am worthy,” I say out loud, cringing even though no one else can hear me. I hate saying these affirmations, but begrudgingly, I do admit they can help when I’m spiraling. “I am strong. I am loved.”
The words taste like bitter lies in my mouth. But I promised my family I was going to take therapy seriously, and this is part of it. So would getting out of my damn car and making my feet move toward the front entrance of the building I’ve taken time out of my Saturday afternoon to visit.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” I ask myself out loud, trying another technique that my therapist gave me.
Unfortunately, my traitorous brain has plenty of answers to that it helpfully supplies. I’ll fail and hurt someone. I’ll get it all wrong and embarrass myself. I’ll prove Shane right that I can’t do anything without him.
“Fuck that,” I mumble, jabbing at my seat belt clasp and opening the car door. It might be difficult for me to believe a lot of things about myself. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that my life is a hundred times better without my ex in it.
The air is warm, and the sun is shining, as is pretty typical here in California. Closing the car door, I take a moment to close my eyes and breathe. “I can do this.”
Gravel crunches under my feet as I cross the lot, pulling the glass door open so I can step inside to the much cooler air. There. That was the first step, and it wasn’t so bad.
Behind the desk is a young blonde woman whose face lights up as I wipe my feet on the welcome mat.
“Hi there! Can I help you?” she asks cheerfully.
“Um, yeah,” I say, shuffling closer and trying not to get distracted by my pounding heart. I’m still terrified I’m going to make a terrible mistake, and everything in me is screaming to turn around and run away. But one foot after the other, I approach the desk. “I was thinking about making an adoption. Maybe.”
If it’s possible, the woman’s smile gets even bigger. Her name badge tells me she’s called Paisley. I’d guess she’s only a bit younger than me, so perhaps mid-twenties? I hope she’s not judging me for being so hopeless. I bet she doesn’t have to give herself a pep talk every time she walks into a new place. Or maybe she does? How would I know, right?
In any case, she beams at me for a second before grabbing some forms. “That’s wonderful! We’ll need to take some details first. If you’re approved, we’ll also need to do a home visit before you can take an animal home. But that’s getting ahead.” She laughs and passes the forms to me, pinned to a clipboard. “You’ll need to come out back and have a look and see if anyone tickles your fancy, first. Did you have anything in mind for your new four-legged friend?”
I try and stop my hands from trembling as I take the forms and a pen. “Um, a dog?” I say, sounding unsure even though that’s what I’ve already decided on, rather than a cat. Not that there’s anything wrong with cats. They’re awesome. I just think the energy I need right now needs to be a pet that’s (hopefully) excited to see me. Not one who treats me like a disappointing butler.
I half expect the nice lady to scoff and tell me I can’t handle a dog so I should get a goldfish instead. But of course, she simply nods.
“Yep, we’ve got all kinds of dogs here. Do you have a particular breed in mind or age or temperament or anything like that?”
If I say ‘no’ will she tell me I can’t have one? I take a couple of seconds to fill out my name, address and telephone number on the form, then decide honesty is usually the best policy. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I’ve never owned a dog before.”
Sure, we had dogs in the family when I was growing up, so I’m not totally clueless. But I’ve never had one all by myself.
“So maybe, um, one that’s easygoing?”
Paisley nods happily. “We’ve got a couple I can already think of for you to meet. Is an older dog okay? A lot of people want puppies.”
I shake my head, handing back the completed form. “I want to give a dog a good home, that’s all.”
She sighs and places her hand over her heart. “Good answer—” She glances at my form. “—Dario. Let’s go take a look, shall we?”
It’s funny hearing people using that name out loud. Not that it’s wrong. I’m just still getting used to it.
But a thought occurs to me, and I don’t move even though she’s rising to her feet. I point at the form I just gave her, my pulse quickening again. “Um, sorry. Silly question. But do you keep your records confidential?”
She blinks at me before waving her hands at me. “Oh, of course! We have a closed CRM system, so it’s all kept private.”
I relax and manage to give her half a smile. “That’s great, thank you.”
I’m grateful she doesn’t probe into why I asked that. She just comes out from behind the desk with a big bunch of keys and ushers me toward a set of double doors to the right.
“Here’s where all our pups live. It can get a little noisy, just to warn you.”
“That’s fine,” I assure her as she unlocks the door and leads the way.
Immediately, my heart breaks at seeing all the dogs living at the shelter. They each have little rooms behind wire doors. They’re reasonably sized, though, with a bed, water and food bowls, and some toys, so it’s not completely bleak. Some of the dogs have roommates, but most are by themselves.
How am I supposed to pick just one? How do I decide who’s worthy? I want to save them all. But I tell myself that them being here is far better than them being on the streets, or worse. Practically speaking, I can only take responsibility for one. Hopefully this nice lady will help me find a good match.
“So,” Paisley is saying, “we have a lovely little guy who joined us recently. I think he’s going to go fast, so I’ll show him to you first. If you follow me this way, then?—”
“Hang on,” I say, freezing in my tracks. “Who’s this?”
It’s the eyes. They’re so sad. I step closer, peering through the wire at the bundle of white and tan wrinkles looking up at me. One lower canine tooth pokes up over a top lip before its owner gives me a low, little ‘woof!’ The dog looks tired as they get to their feet, their wide shoulders sturdy as they steady themselves on their massive paws. Most of the wrinkles have smoothed out over their solid body now they’ve stood up, but the face is still rumpled and the mouth downcast. The tooth is poking up again.
“Oh, this is Queenie,” the woman says. “She’s been with us quite a while.”
“Queenie?” The name doesn’t seem to suit this unhappy, hulking dog all that much.
But the woman nods. “She’s an English bulldog, so we named her after the late Queen Elizabeth. But a lot of people rename their new friends when they get them home.”
“You don’t know what her name was before she came here?” I ask as I crouch down, lacing my fingers through the wire frame of the door. Queenie shuffles closer to me, and I catch a short corkscrew tail giving a little wag as she sniffs my hand. Her nose is cold when she bumps it against my hand.
“No, unfortunately not,” the nice lady informs me. “Queenie was left on our doorstep in a cardboard box. We think she was used for a couple of rounds of breeding before…well, we’re just grateful that whoever dumped her did so responsibly.”
I can tell from her tone what she thinks of anyone who would abandon a living creature like that, and I feel exactly the same. But she’s right. There are far worse alternatives.
“Hi, Queenie,” I say softly, managing to give her chin a rub through the wire.
“Oh, she drools quite a lot,” Paisley warns me.
I don’t care.
In fact, I’ve changed my mind. I think this majestic dog suits her name perfectly. She’s a survivor, and that makes her royalty in my eyes.
“It’s okay,” I say, standing back up. “Actually, can I, um, hang out with her for a bit? What do people usually do?”
Paisley’s eyes go a bit glassy. “You’re interested in her?”
“Very,” I say firmly.
She nods and clears her throat. “Of course. Let’s get her out and on a leash, then you two can spend some time in our yard. There’s space if you want to walk around and some toys to play with.”
Queenie barks again as the woman opens the cage door. Because, if I’m being honest, that’s what it is. A cage. Not a home. How long does she have to stay in there every day for her wellbeing and so the shelter staff can manage all these dogs?
The thought of taking her for long walks in the woods or on the beach makes my throat tight with emotion. I know I shouldn’t jump into anything without proper consideration, especially with how apprehensive I was before coming in here. But I don’t need much more time to make my mind up. As soon as Paisley hands me the leash and Queenie looks up at me, I know it’s a done deal.
Queenie deserves rescuing just as much as the adorable puppies and prettier dogs that are here, all of which I’m sure will get picked way faster than her. I look into her dark eyes, positive that I see them brighten a fraction. Her little curly tail gives another tentative wag.
I might still not know what the hell I’m doing, but that’s okay.
Queenie and I are going to work it out together.