Chapter Ten
Dot
The young woman at the front desk of the shelter looks up from her computer as we walk in. It’s early—the shelter’s only been open for half an hour, but I’m still jittery with what ifs, both about the dog’s wellbeing and to… well, last night. With Camden.
Every time I blink, I’m back in that bed—his breath in my hair, the weight of his arm keeping the world quiet.
I never felt so seen or so undone. Part of me wants to replay it until the edges blur; the other part keeps panicking over what it means.
I felt so seen in that moment, and that’s what unravels me most. No guy has ever treated me like something to protect instead of conquer.
I should feel embarrassed, but all I feel is raw and restless, like he peeled back a layer I didn’t know I had.
How am I supposed to stand next to him now with that kind of intimacy between us?
I scurry over to the desk. “Hi, I’m Dot Shaw.”
“Oh!” Her eyes light up. “You’re here for Krusty Krabs! I’m Ginger. I’m so glad you saw the video. I do most of our account management on socials, and it’s good to know that the videos are hitting the right audience. Do you want to see him?”
I nod vigorously. Camden comes up to stand beside me.
His arm brushes mine. Not intentional, probably, but it brands me.
Last night lingers right there, crackling between us like static, and I have no idea what the rules are now.
I brace for a repeat of last night with that swarm of rude puck bunnies, but this woman must not be a hockey fan.
She acknowledges Camden with a small nod and waves for us to follow her.
“His girlfriend’s going to miss him,” she says as she leads us back down a hall.
I look back at Camden, who only shrugs. “Whose girlfriend?” I ask.
“Krusty’s. He’s a nervous little guy, but he loves Bo. We usually put the little dogs together in the small dog room, but...” She pushes a door open, and the rest of her words are drowned out by the wails and barking of the dogs on the other side.
There are dozens of them, all the size of beagles and larger.
A few of them lower their heads and snap as we pass, but mostly they press themselves against the wire of their kennels and wag their tails.
I don’t let myself look at any of them. I’m here on a mission, and I refuse to be distracted by the dogs with shiny coats and better adoption prospects.
Ginger stops in front of a kennel and points.
She doesn’t bother trying to talk; she’s used to the noise.
I shuffle closer and peer into the kennel, and I immediately melt.
The Chinese Crested I’ve been obsessed with for the last twenty-four hours is curled into the smallest possible ball.
He’s shaking so hard that the tufts of fur on his ears tremble.
Next to him, looking utterly regal and unbothered, is a leggy black dog covered in matted black hair.
This, I assume, is Bo. Skinbad doesn’t move when he sees us, though his bright blue eyes lock onto me with unblinking intensity.
Bo looks down her long nose at us and wags her tail once.
Ginger holds up a finger to indicate that she needs a moment. She unclips the door’s lock and steps inside. Skinbad doesn’t move a muscle until she scoops him up, at which point he starts wailing and thrashing his legs, doing everything in his power to escape her grasp.
As Ginger carries him off, Bo gets to her feet and follows gracefully after them. Everything about the bigger dog gives the impression of a princess who has fallen from grace. She’s a mess, but her poise remains intact.
Have I watched Disney’s Anastasia too many times? Maybe.
When Ginger does a body-block on Bo, I shake my head and point to the leash clipped to the door. Ginger shrugs and finagles the leash onto Bo’s collar. The statuesque dog stands perfectly still until she’s all hooked up. Ginger shepherds us all to a meet and greet room.
“Sorry,” she says in the sudden quiet. I can hear the muffled barking of the dogs, but now that we’re not right in front of them, they’re already calming down. “Krusty can get a little dramatic when his girlfriend is involved.”
The sound in that kennel goes through me.
Every bark, every whine. It’s too familiar — all those animals begging for attention they might never get.
A tiny echo of what it feels like to be left behind.
Every pair of eyes on me could be a ghost, waiting for a ride home that might not come.
I want to scoop up all of them, promise them they’re wanted. It hurts, knowing I can’t.
“My dad’s last two dogs were like that. Bonded, I mean.
” I stuff my hands into my pockets. I wasn’t as attached to Mitzi and Moppet as I was to the dogs we had when I was growing up, but thinking about them makes me think about Mom, which makes me think about Dad and how my parents, too, were a bonded pair.
I can’t take Skinbad away from his one source of comfort.
I’m not a monster. I know how this works. If I take Skinbad away and leave Bo behind, her outcome won’t be good.
This emotional dilemma leaves me with only one option.
“Can you tell me about Bo?”
Ginger sets Skinbad on the floor. He immediately scrambles between Bo’s legs and stands there, shivering and growling at us. Bo grants us a sleepy blink and then stares out of the large window on the exterior wall of the room.
“She’s some kind of Afghan mix. We think poodle, probably?
” Ginger pats Bo’s head and gets another solitary tail wag.
“Afghan hounds are so rare that they usually get adopted right away. But she’s a mutt, so there’s that, and then there’s the hair to boot.
We got it brushed out once, but she’s going to need a ton of coat care, and a lot of people aren’t up to the task. ”
“Oh.” I twist my fingers together. “Sure, I can see that.”
“And black dogs get adopted at much lower rates than others.” Ginger sighs. “Well, I’ll leave you to meet Krusty. Want me to take Bo back to her kennel so that the three of you can get acquainted?”
“No, she can stay.”
Ginger shoots me a knowing look. She must know I’m a big softie, what with the thousand-dollar deposit I paid over the phone. “Okay. I’ll come back in a bit and see how you’re doing.” She unclips Bo, loops the leash over the door handle, and departs.
Camden sits down under the window, with his back to the wall.
I squat down and reach toward Skinbad, where he’s huddled beneath Bo’s matted belly.
As soon as my hand enters his personal space, he snaps at me.
His stubby little teeth don’t look like they could do much damage, but pushing his boundaries won’t warm him up to me.
I retreat to the plastic-covered sofa on the far side of the room, sit down, and wait.
“Dot.” Camden’s expression is grave. “You aren’t by any chance considering a double adoption, are you?”
Watching them together—her still as a statue, him shaking like a leaf beneath her—hits something soft in my chest. Two misfits clinging to each other because the world hasn’t given them much else.
I know that language. I’ve spoken it my whole life.
They don’t match, not really. But they don’t seem to care.
They just fit where it matters. I want that.
I want to believe I could have that too.
I flap my hand toward Bo. “You heard Ginger. Black dogs are less adoptable. Dad used to talk about that, too. I guess they’re harder to see when people are touring the shelter or something.”
“That, and superstition. It’s the same with cats, I’ve heard.
” Camden sighs. “She’s a lot bigger than he is, though, and your dad isn’t going to be able to do much.
Even if she doesn’t hurt him, she’s going to need more exercise and brushing than this naked little sausage.
” He points toward the sausage in question.
I’m not one to fat-shame, in part because I’m not a hypocrite, but Skinbad is certainly rotund.
He glares at us in turn with his funky eyes and hunches his back defensively.
I can’t laugh at him, even if he’s the least threatening thing I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s currently living on borrowed time. If I was Skinbad, I’d be angry at the world, too.
“I can brush Bo,” I say. “Or shave her. There are groomers in Vegas, and she doesn’t look like she’d put up much of a fight.”
Camden shakes his head. His mouth is curved into a small, knowing smile that matches the one Ginger gave when I said she could leave Bo with us.
“What do you think, Bo?” he asks. The dog’s ears twitch at the sound of her name. “You want to come home with Dot?” He pats his thighs. “Come here, Bo.”
Bo stares at him, utterly nonplussed, for a solid fifteen seconds.
Camden pats his legs again. She reaches some silent decision and glides over to him, where she proceeds to sniff his face thoroughly from about two centimeters away.
Camden closes his eyes and laughs when her exhaled breath ruffles his hair.
Skinbad does not take kindly to being abandoned. He whines and tucks his tail between his legs. His earlier trembling returns.
“Aw, poor boy.” I press my hands to my face. Skinbad hates me, but I adore him already.
Bo gives a final sniff. Her legs abruptly buckle beneath her, and she flops down beside Camden so that her head rests in his lap.
“Looks like I have Bo’s blessing.” He pets her long, narrow head. “How about you, little man?”
Skinbad’s feet tap against the floor in a nervous little dance. He whines again.
Bo lets out a contented sigh and shifts herself closer to Camden.
Skinbad’s fighting spirit breaks. He totters over to Camden, sniffs his way from sneakers to belt, then crawls into Camden’s lap and resumes his curled posture from earlier.