Page 3 of Doggy Style

He even came out with a line of t-shirts reading, I’m an animal, let’s do it doggy style. Hell, I own one of them—I even sleep in it. I can’t even fathom how many women that man has bedded.

And unfortunately, I’m not one of them.

“Yeah, I know who he is. Why? Did you sleep with him?” She probably did. I would be so jealous.

“No. I wish. Did you hear that he’s about to open a new puppy store on Main?”

Oh hell no! Almost immediately all my desire for him turns to disgust. “Nooooooooo! What store?”

“It’s called Doggy Style.”

“Of course it is,” I say somberly. Normally I would laugh at the name choice, but my brain immediately realizes what a new puppy store will mean for all the local shelter dogs.

Fewer adoptions and more dead dogs.

“Grand opening is in two weeks. A bunch of us are going down there to protest when it opens. We’re going to bring red paint and pour it over our heads to represent the blood of the shelter dogs who’ll die because of the morons who will buy his puppies. Should be fun. Want to come?”

“Sounds like a blast. I’ll be there. I hate people, Avril. I really do. You should’ve seen the guy with the Chi. Didn’t care at all that his dog was going to die. What the hell is wrong with everyone?”

Most days, I fantasize about moving somewhere off the grid with my dogs, so I don’t have to deal with the public. I can’t handle the heartbreaking stories in the news every day. It seems like no one cares about anyone other than themselves anymore.

“I agree. The world’s insane, and it’s getting worse. It’ll be even harder for us to have successful adoption events with his store there. Maybe we should burn it down tonight, so it doesn’t open.”

I love how Avril just brings up arson like it’s a logical solution. Or a legal one. “You’re nuts. Talk to you later.”

“Bye, babe.”

I turn down Katella Avenue and head to the vet clinic, which is where I spend most of my free time. We are so lucky to have them—they work on credit, allow us to board our dogs there for eight dollars a day until they’re healthy enough to go to foster homes, and give us medical care at a considerable discount.

The tech, Stace, greets me with a smile. She knows the routine. Shelter exam, fecal, dental, microchip, and all shots. I pray these dogs don’t have a bad case of kennel cough. When they’re healthy enough, Avril will pick them up and take them to their foster homes, where they’ll stay until they get adopted. If they get adopted.

Stace shines a light into the black pug mix’s remaining eye. “Well, at least his other eye looks good. I’ll have the doctor examine him. What’s his name?”

I think for a second and partake in a few more pug kisses. “Pirate. Let’s call the beagle Lucy, and the min pin Nemo.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll text you when I have an update.”

I say goodbye and leave the vet. Time to head to the liquor store to buy some booze so I can drink myself into oblivion.

How is this my life?

Three years ago, I offered to help pull a dog from a shelter for a rescue who had posted a plea on Facebook. Now I help run a dog rescue and spend most of my free time transporting dogs, conducting home checks, answering emails, and dealing with flaky fosters.

My personal life has been in a shambles ever since my boyfriend left me last year because he said I cared more about the dogs than I did him, which was sadly true. I’m broke from all the veterinary bills from my own dogs who I’ve adopted—or, well, inherited, after they didn’t get adopted. My day job as a tattoo artist, while creatively fulfilling, doesn’t even cover my living expenses in pricey Orange County.

At least it’s summer. But then again, it’s always summer in the OC. And summer means the Fourth of July—D-Day for dog rescuers. So many dogs get lost after they get frightened by the fireworks and even more are killed because the shelters fill up so quickly. I used to love the Fourth—now it’s my least favorite holiday.

I really need a vacation.

Not that I plan on taking one. I haven’t had a break in years. I’m dying to attend the huge pet expo conference in Hawai’i this week. There are going to be all these great seminars on rescue strategies, finding grants, and fundraising. But I can’t afford the ticket to get in, let alone the cost of flying there and back. Plus it’s impossible to find a pet-sitter because I have eleven dogs at my house—six of my own and five fosters.

I drive down Main Street in search of the closest liquor store, but then the glare of a neon-pink sign stops me.

Doggy Style.

Preston’s puppy store.

Who opens a puppy store in this day and age? Millions of dogs are murdered daily in shelters. Sweet, fantastic dogs, including purebred dogs and puppies. There’s never, ever an excuse to breed or buy when shelter pets die.