2. Emily
CHAPTER 2
EMILY
C rouching down, my knees pressed into the cool concrete floor of the shelter, I reach out slowly toward Finn. The pit bull mix gazes back at me with eyes filled with worry, his body tense as a wound spring. He’s come a long way since he first arrived here — skinny, skittish, and scarred not just on the surface.
“Easy, Finn,” I murmur, my voice as soft as the late afternoon light spilling through the high windows. “You’re doing so good, buddy.”
A small wag teases the end of his tail, a hopeful flicker that tells me he’s starting to trust this place — and maybe even me.
As I run my hand over his sleek brindle coat, I feel the ripple of muscles under my fingers, the quiet strength in him waiting to emerge. But it’s like there’s a shadow over him that dims the brightness of his intelligence — the anxiety that makes everything harder than it should be.
“Ricki?” I call out, not wanting to take my eyes off Finn. The sound of my voice bounces off the kennel walls, mingling with the chorus of barks and whines from the other dogs.
“Yeah, Em?” Ricki’s voice comes from somewhere behind me, where she’s been busy cleaning out the empty kennel.
I straighten up, keeping one hand on Finn’s head. “Could we maybe get one of the volunteer vets to take a look at Finn? I’m thinking he might benefit from anti-anxiety meds.”
There’s a pause where I can almost hear her weighing the request against the shelter’s ever-tight budget. “Sure, we can do that. Dr. Sarah is coming in tomorrow; I’ll ask her to check him out.”
“Thanks.” Relief washes over me, but it’s tempered by the knowledge that pills are only a patch on a larger problem.
Still, if they could smooth out some of the edges for Finn, give him the chance to let go of his fears, even just a little — it’s worth a shot. I’ve trained a lot of dogs that have come through this shelter, and Finn is smart. One of the smartest dogs I’ve met.
But even the smartest dogs, just like the smartest people, are only as good as their limits. There are hellish beasts yapping at this pup’s heels, and I suspect they’re the source of why he wound up on the streets in the first place. He’s a beautiful dog, but my guess is whoever had him couldn’t control him, and they ended up turning him out.
I look into Finn’s eyes again, promising silently that I won’t give up on him. Because someone has to believe in second chances, especially for the ones who have been dealt the harshest firsts.
He starts to get up, but I give him the command to sit. Since he listens right away, I reward him with a treat and a hearty rub on his side. His tail wags so hard it slaps him on either side of his back, making me laugh.
“Good boy, Finn. You did so good today.” I lead him back to his kennel, hating to put him in there. If only I didn’t need to get to my shift at the coffee shop, I would stay around longer and take him and some of the other dogs for walks.
Ricki’s voice breaks through the rhythm of my thoughts, a note of apology in her tone. “Em, before you go… I’ve got some bad news.”
“What is it?” My heart picks up speed, an uncomfortable tightness wrapping around my chest.
She looks at me with those sympathetic eyes that have seen too much surrender and not enough salvation. “The county’s cutting funding for the training program,” she says, the words landing like punches. “We can’t afford to pay as many trainers anymore. We’re gonna keep you on, but the hours will be reduced… about half. I’m sorry.”
A cold wave crashes over me, the implications of her statement chilling me to the bone. Fewer hours, less help for dogs like Finn, less hope. Part-time work here never lined my pockets, but it filled my soul in ways that steaming milk and pouring coffee never could.
“Can they do that?” I ask, though I know the answer. Money talks louder than need — always has.
“They can, and they are.” Ricki’s hand finds my shoulder, a silent show of support. “I’m sorry, Em.”
“Thanks,” I say, but the word feels hollow. This job, this place — it’s my lifeline as much as I am theirs. It gives me some meaning in a world that so often feels empty and dark.
“I still want to volunteer my time to training,” I say through the lump in my throat. “I’ll come in for the same hours, even the ones I’m not paid for.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” I nail her with a hard look, and she knows I’m doing this more for the dogs than anything else. Just like her and everyone else here.
She nods, a smile slipping across her face. “I know. We’re lucky to have you. Hey, I heard Sunshine is doing great in her new home. She’s even started playing fetch.”
“That’s great!” It’s exactly what I need to hear. Another shelter dog whose life we turned around.
We head out of the kennel area and into the main lobby. The front door opens, and another dog — a trembling terrier mix — gets carried in by a volunteer. Its eyes dart around in fear, confusion knotting its brow, and something inside me cracks. One more dog.
One last dog.
We’re at capacity now, bursting at the seams with stories untold, futures uncertain. If anyone brings in another dog before one gets adopted, we’ll have to turn them away. Tell them to put the dog back where they found it.
That sounds cruel, but the only other option is that they take it to one of the kill shelters… where its likelihood of coming out is low. Here, we have a no-kill policy, but that can only be maintained by not overcrowding.
“Another one,” I whisper, more to myself than to Ricki. The shelter feels smaller somehow, every inch of space precious, and every wagging tail a reminder of what we stand to lose.
“Yep,” Ricki replies, her gaze following mine. “And we’ll take care of them, same as always. Somehow.”
“Right. Somehow.” I force the words out, knowing she’s also thinking about all the dogs we won’t be able to take.
I think of Finn, of the tentative trust he’s built with me, and wonder how many more setbacks he can withstand before hope becomes just another empty promise.
“See you tomorrow, Ricki,” I say, more out of habit than certainty.
Will I even get paid for tomorrow’s hours?
It doesn’t matter, I decide. I need the money — Portland isn’t cheap — but I’ll show up regardless of whether the sessions are padding my paycheck or not.
“See you, Em.” She offers a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
I step outside, taking a deep breath, looking up at the sky as if searching for an answer. But all I find there are fluffy clouds and silence.
The engine hums a low, monotonous song as I drive away from the shelter, my hands tight on the steering wheel. The image of the full kennels lingers in my mind, haunting me with the ghosts of wagging tails and hopeful eyes. I pull into the coffee- shop parking lot, the neon “Open” sign buzzing like an impatient reminder of reality.
I clock in for the closing shift, the familiar scent of roasted beans bitter in my nostrils. The whirr of espresso machines is usually comforting, but this afternoon it’s just noise distracting me from figuring out some way to get more funding for the shelter.
“Emily! Table four needs a latte!” My coworker’s voice snaps me back, her words sharp against my fog of worry.
I nod, setting to work, my movements mechanical. Milk froths, the steam wand hissing like a tired sigh. But my mind isn’t here — it’s pacing alongside Finn, trying to reassure him that tomorrow will be better, even if I don’t believe it myself.
In my distraction, the cup tilts, and before I can steady it, hot coffee cascades over the counter, a waterfall of wasted warmth. It pools around a woman’s designer bag, the dark liquid seeping into the expensive leather.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m so sorry!”
I grab towels, dabbing frantically at the mess, my cheeks burning. The woman’s eyes are cool saucers of displeasure, and I can feel her judgment soaking into me like the latte into her bag.
“Watch what you’re doing next time,” she says, her voice clipped and cold.
Embarrassment clings to me. I’m tired of this — of mopping up messes, both literal and metaphorical. I’m tired of the smell of coffee clinging to my skin long after my shift ends, of counting tips that barely cover bills, of feeling like I’m always one step behind where I need to be. Tired of squeezing the thing that really matters — helping dogs — into the hours in between.
As the last customers trickle out and the chairs are lifted onto tables, I lean against the counter, allowing myself a moment to breathe. What am I going to do now? The thought circles in my head, a vulture waiting for resolve to die. My heart still aches for the shelter, for the dogs whose names I know as well as my own.
If only I could find more private clients for my training business, then I could give at least a bit of the money to the shelter. Afford things here and there like medicine and foods for the animals who need special diets. But how? How do I reach out, make connections when every hour seems spoken for? Especially now that I’ll need to find a way to make up the difference I’m losing thanks to the county’s cut in funding.
I’ll think of something. I have to. That — or there will be a miracle, maybe; a stroke of luck or a chance meeting that could change everything.
I glance through the window at the starless sky, looking for a sign, a sliver of hope — for me, for Finn, for all the dogs who deserve more than what fate has dealt them.
“Please,” I say, my reflection gazing back at me, eyes full of silent pleas. “We just need a little help.”