Page 65 of How to Ruin a Wedding

“How long have you worked here?” I ask, and I appreciate that there’s no awkwardness between us, no need for small talk. We immediately speak like we’re already friends just having a catch-up.

“Since I was a kid,” she explains. “My dad started this place, and I was always his little shadow. He passed a couple years ago, so my momhas taken over, but she’s not really a hands-on person.” She then asks, “You said you work at a shelter?”

“Yeah, back in New York. Boards about twenty dogs, which is great when you think about saving that many from the streets, but hard to give them all enough attention. Started volunteering when I was a teen.”

“What made you want to?”

“Long story short, the most precious dog I rescued from the street, and I couldn’t move on since.” Short story long, working with dogs gave me something no job or relationship ever did—purpose.

“Ah, there’s always the first.” She gives me a gentle tap. “Well, I won’t beat around the bush. If you’re willing to help, I have two dogs to wash, and three of them are going to need some moral support when the vet techs get here to give them their vaccines. Though, today is a good day—one of them, Shelly, is getting adopted. But that’ll take up some of my time. I don’t mean to ask for help the first time you visit—”

“I’m in.” I stand. “Use me as much as you can.”

She joins me. “I don’t have any money to offer, but my mom is coming in the afternoon to feed me donuts and matcha, and you’re welcome to have your fill.”

“Deal.”

The only difference between here and Save a Paw is the space and equipment. Everything here is thoroughly used, from brushes to collars, and there’s not a popular name brand in sight—at least, for the washes and grooming care—but the food is from the most reputable vet-tested brand. The team here tightens the wallet for smaller things, but food, the most important, doesn’t seem to have a limit.

It’s another thing I love most about this work—not just the dogs, but the people who care about them. The ones who make something out of almost nothing. Who don’t get applause for it but keep showing up anyway.

Save a Paw is my dream; I built it with hopeful hands. A place where I could finally prove—to the world, and to myself—that I’m not a failure. That I have purpose. That I belong. That I can be a partof something that doesn’t fall apart when life does. While we work, Dainese talks to fill up the space. As someone who was raised with the most talkative human alive (Taina), I’m no stranger to a constant stream of chitchat. I don’t have to nod or grunt or display signs of listening (I am) because Dainese just assumes I’m keeping up.

Even when we move on from my laborious tasks—like trying to wash a hyperactive husky in a closet of a shower—Dainese barely changes tone.

She tells me Sora’s story, of the loving home he had with an elderly couple who passed within weeks of each other, and how the displacement brought him here, and more.

She checks her athletic wristwatch and says, “The couple adopting should be here soon, perfect timing.” She grabs a towel from beneath her desk drawer and tosses it to me. “Then we can eat.”

“Sure,” I say, approaching the Yorkie’s cage. “Good luck, buddy, be good.”

On the door, there is a paper taped up, readingOne month at shelter. One month in, and already finding a home. It’s amazing, and I’m so happy for the cutie, but I move to the end of the hall and spot Sora lying on his side, wide eyes looking up at me.

Six months at the shelter.

If I’m being honest with myself, I know he very likely won’t be getting a new home. Senior dogs already have the least chance of getting adopted, second only to a dog with a disability. Combine them both, and Sora has no chance.

How many times has he lain here and watched another dog leave with a family?

I find Dainese at the desk, typing away. “Can I take Sora for a walk?”

She glances up, her sharp features softening. “I know, I feel bad too.” She reads my mind. “Go ahead, it’s muggy, but not hot, so he can stay out longer.”

“I’ll be back,” I promise, and erase the image of running to an airport and bringing Sora to Taina’s place with me.

I grab a stray ball and a harness for Sora and let myself into his cage. His tail does a single wag, like he smothered his excitement as soon as it built up. I get just one more wag when I wrap the collar around him and gently tug the leash toward the door, making sure I’m in his direct view.

He follows, and I maintain a slow enough pace he doesn’t feel like we’re rushing, but fast enough that he can feel free to be excited. I steal a bottle of water left on the windowsill in case he gets thirsty and head out.

We wander toward the back, descending a small hill leading directly to the sandy shores. It must be the weather, and the late-afternoon weekday, that has this side of the beach empty. Only our feet leave prints on the sand as we walk together.

Sora keeps watching the water, but I can’t tell if it’s with affection or fear. I scan the beach again, making sure we’re truly alone, then unhook his leash. I pop off my shoes, toss them closer to the sand, then jog to the tide.

Sora watches me for a while, letting the cool water surround my feet then disappear. Like a game of double Dutch—hopping in place, waiting for the best moment—Sora waits until the tide pulls back, runs after it, then runs away when it comes for its turn of tag.

I join him, running forward and then away until my chest burns and reminds me the last time I ran a mile was a year ago. I settle for tossing the ball in the shallow water for him while I catch my breath.

When the ball is lost, he simply runs into the water. My heart pounds for a split second, waiting to see if he’s able to swim, but it seems he’s experienced enough, so I drop down and sit on the damp sand, just above the tide line.