Page 2 of Doggy Style

Two hundred and forty dollars to save three dogs? It was only supposed to be one hundred and sixty because fixed dogs are free. My heart races as I quickly check the rescue’s bank balance on my phone.

One hundred and seventy-one dollars and thirty-two cents. Dammit.

Last month, we were wiped out by the medical bills from a sheltie who needed ACL surgery. Donations are trickling in today, and we had a few adoptions last week, but the funds must not have gone through yet. I can’t use my personal credit card again. It won’t even go through—it’s maxed.

But if I don’t, one of these dogs will die.

I look back at Deb. “Did any of them come in fixed? Because then it would only be one hundred and sixty dollars.”

She types something on the computer, and her eyes brighten. “Actually, yes. The beagle was spayed. One hundred and sixty it is.”

I slap down the rescue’s debit card.

Today must be my lucky day. Actually, it’s these three dogs’ lucky day.

The kennel attendant comes out from the back room and hands me leashes attached to the three sorriest-looking dogs I’ve ever seen—a one-eyed black pug mix with a crooked smile, followed by a senior beagle with a foul-smelling ear, and a limping miniature pinscher with glossy eyes.

Three dogs I’ll never adopt out. Three dogs destined to live in overcrowded foster homes while people waste their money purchasing purebred puppies. Three dogs who gave their best years to their owners, only to be dumped when they were no longer cute and fluffy.

But they don’t know that. And I’ve just saved their lives.

I secure them with the leashes and harnesses I brought before I dash out of the shelter. The cries from the dogs in the back room who will be murdered today will ring in my head at night. And forever.

But I have to focus on the ones I can save.

Once inside my beat-up car that barely runs, I unclip their leashes and indulge in doggy kisses. Then the min pin cowers on the floor, the pug mix pukes all over my seat, and the beagle pees on my foot. Basically, my typical Saturday night.

Is it too early for me to start drinking?

I grab some old rags and clean up their messes. Now it’s off to the drive-thru for puppuccinos.

The dogs indulge in their treats, and the pug mix licks my face. That’s the closest I’ll get to some action anytime soon. Unlike Avril—the foster coordinator of the rescue—I never hook up. I can’t even remember the last time I got laid. I’m not sure of the real reason for my lackluster sex life. Maybe it’s because I hate online dating and would rather spend my nights on the sofa cuddling with my foster dogs watching the latest true crime docudrama than in a crowded bar meeting someone who’s more interested in checking out women on his phone than getting to know me.

Avril even bought me a pillowcase that reads, Sleeps with dogs. Pathetic but true.

As I’m pulling out of the parking lot, I call Avril. “Hey girl, got them. And we need to find an immediate foster for a Chi.”

She sighs. “Dammit, Yessi. I saw your Instagram post. We don’t have an open foster. Eden’s going to kill you. I have thirteen dogs at my house. Thirteen! I’d have better luck finding a unicorn.”

She’s right. Eden, the president of the rescue, will flip. She’s always lecturing Avril and me about responsible rescuing. What the hell is that? Sounds like an oxymoron. “Well, at least we could find a foster for a unicorn. Don’t worry. That one is on me. She was just so cute. We shared a moment—I can’t let her down. I’ll figure it out.” But my gut wrenches as those words leave my mouth. No matter how many dogs I save, there’s always another one about to be murdered.

Despite my best efforts, it’s never enough.

I will never be enough.

Sometimes I wonder if all my hard work matters at all, because I can’t even find a foster for a dog about to die. Or someone to watch my dogs when I need a break. Sure, Avril and Eden will. But they’re in the same boat as me.

Sometimes, I wish I didn’t care so much.

I take a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m dropping off the newbies at the vet, then heading home.”

“Well, thanks for picking up the three. Are they adoptable?”

I look at the min pin shaking on my seat. I reach down to pet him, and he bites me. I blot the blood with a straw wrapper. “Nope.”

“Of course, they aren’t. Get some cute pictures, and I’ll network.” She pauses and lowers her voice. “By the way, do you know who Preston Evans is?”

Preston Evans? Believe me, I know all about Preston Evans. He’s a legend. Not only is he ridiculously hot—sporting a fitness-model physique, dark, wavy hair that begs women to run their fingers through it, and bedroom eyes that could seduce a nun—but he’s also a war hero turned social media superstar. The guy has like half a million followers on Instagram. Ever since his celebrity ex Snapchatted a video of him doing her doggy style, Preston Evans has been everywhere.