4 #2
I’d been putting aside small amounts for years and had already saved up $10,000 for it. I’m nowhere near the other $20,000. When I told him that, he said his wife gave him a year to get his affairs in order, therefore, I had a year (now three months left) to buy it off him.
A stressful fact made more anxiety inducing when he informed me that his partner, the other shareholder, already had someone interested in buying.
In a cruel and genius way, Taina goes into my photos app and starts playing videos of Storm and me.
“Think of all the Stormys that need you to keep the business thriving. What would have happened to her if you hadn’t found her?
” she asks, knowing damn well she probably would have died.
“Don’t you remember? How much pain she was in? ”
Of course I do. How could I not? My dog was my everything. “Don’t be cruel,” I tell her.
“I’m just saying, Storm helped you realize your passion in life. Animals. You can’t let the shelter go to some Wall Street, high-water, cufflink-wearing asshole.”
I rub my palms against my eyes. “I’m pretty sure it’s a former veterinarian wanting to take over.” But she’s right, Storm had helped me.
In every aspect of my life. In every relationship, platonic or otherwise.
It doesn’t matter how hard I work at being a good friend, an amazing girlfriend, or an incredible employee; it’s like I was specially created to be an extra in every main character’s life.
It doesn’t matter how much I bend and twist and break to become a priority for the people around me, I’m always just an afterthought.
The first time I’d ever been needed was on my sixteenth birthday. My parents forgot—understandably—since Taina had the flu so horrendously, she had to be taken to the hospital, and I dragged myself on a ten-mile walk, hoping that each step would feel less miserable than the last.
And then I saw a dog limping across a road, under the drizzle becoming rain.
Its leg buckled halfway through, and it dropped as the headlights of a car poured closer and closer toward it.
Without thinking, I ran out, hands up, screaming for the car to stop.
It swerved, barely avoiding us, but the near-death hardly shook me.
The poor silver thing was whining, its hind leg bent at a grotesque angle. Its eyes were blue and wide with pain, and they held such a familiar kind of heartache that I wrapped it up in my arms. A pit bull. Fifty pounds of dog that I somehow managed to drag to the nearest shelter.
Save a Paw—I’ll never forget walking through the building.
It was all a blur. The staff took the dog from me, questioning things I had few answers for, taking her away for hours, and returning with a declaration that she was recovering from surgery, but her leg had been purposely broken.
I spent the rest of the night waiting for any updates.
I cried when they carried the wounded dog and placed her within a large cage at the shelter.
When I wouldn’t leave, the employees let me enter the room and lie with the dog to ease her cries as she tried to sleep through the pain.
Each time she woke, her eyes met mine, like she was checking to make sure I was still there.
Only when she confirmed it did she let herself drift back off to sleep.
She needed me.
It was work convincing my parents to let me adopt her, but once I brought in the tears, they couldn’t deny me.
I buried her name tag and called her Storm, for the night I found her.
Finally, I was a first choice. Storm needed me, but I needed her more.
We spent every day together; our walks got me outside and kept me healthy, and her company as I read or watched TV or studied or slept kept me sane.
She was my best friend and I was hers, but I often thought about the other cries I’d heard. The other animals crying out for love and having nobody reach out.
So our walks took us back to the shelter, where Storm made friends, and I volunteered to pass the time. I helped shower the dogs, distracted them when they were getting their shots, cleaned up the kennels, and worked out potential adoptions to see if families really wanted and could care for a pet.
Save a Paw is mine.
“This wedding wrecking isn’t sustainable,” Taina says, pulling me from the memories. “I’ve been tracking the click-through on all the ads I’ve been running, hits on the site. It’s tanking. And the job market does suck.”
Anxiety bites at me when she says it. “I know, but it’s only temporary. Once I save up for my share, I can start working on how to make the shelter financially sustainable. Make enough for it, and me, and then, no more wedding wrecking.”
Taina raises an eyebrow. “And how do you plan to do that? Bake sales?” When I open my mouth, she holds out a hand. “Just kidding, don’t be mad. I know you’ve been playing around with ideas, but you still haven’t told me exactly how you plan to get any revenue for it.”
Eager to remind my little sister I am a capable adult, I tell her, “Multiple ways.”
“Keeping me in suspense here?”
I smile. “I want to restructure it. Keep the mission side nonprofit—adoptions, hospital costs, rescue costs—but add a couple for-profit arms. The first, a boutique dog-grooming service in the front—spa treatments, high-end. Think about a sauna for dogs. People spend so much on their pets.”
She nods slowly, eyebrows coming together like her own wheels are turning—probably designing me a website in her head as I speak.
“Second—dog merch. Collars, leashes, raincoats, safe nail polish, whatever. All branded. Profits go back into the shelter.”
“And the third?” she asks, taking out her phone and typing what I assume are notes.
“Dog parties.”
She pauses. “Huh?”
“Birthday parties. Engagement shoots for couples and their dogs. It’s a real market.
I’ve done the research. I already know how to market emotionally charged events—weddings, breakups.
Same psychology. Just rebranded for dogs instead of people.
I’ve been building an email list from the weddings I’ve worked.
Brides, grooms, jilted exes with rich friends.
They owe me—and my silence. A few of them are already interested in sponsoring fundraisers. ”
Taina whistles. “You lost me a bit with the dog birthdays, but the rest I can get behind.”
“Tough crowd,” I say, “but, Taina, don’t worry too much about me. I can do this. I’m good at getting people to care. And I’m really good at getting them to pay attention. I’m good at most things, when I put the effort in.”
“I know you are,” she says, her eyes narrowing, “so let me just expedite the process. Let me invest in you.”
I peek over at her. We’re the same height and nearly twins, but she’s without freckles, and her face is sharper where mine is rounded. She is all I have, and I would do anything for her.
Except this.