Chapter Five
It was the annual dog adoption marathon we sponsored and hosted. We pulled together no fewer than five local shelters and got their dogs professional grooming for a massive adopt-a-thon.
We marketed the shit out of this event. It made us look good, and it made the employees feel good to get dogs into nice homes. It was the most wholesome, purely positive thing we did all year.
The previous year we'd helped over one-hundred dogs find new homes, and it was considered a resounding success. This year was an even bigger effort, with seven shelters in a stadium we'd rented out. Our employees were out in huge numbers, setting up cages, showing off dogs, and looking for pets of their own.
Hilde was running around, half-stressed at helping me with my side of organizing such a huge event, and half overjoyed at seeing so many smiling dogs in one place.
She shouted to me over the noise of one particularly barky fellow, “Can you imagine anything nicer than getting homes for all these dogs? Do they really think we can get two hundred adopted out?”
I said with a frown, “With how much money we sunk into this in food trucks, live music, and decorations, they better adopt, or I'll be going house-to-house and throwing litters of puppies into their living rooms.”
Admission was free to the event, with optional donation, and we were footing the entire bill, with absolutely no cost to the participating shelters. I told Rob it was a waste of money. We'd get just as much play from helping at their existing adoption events or sending a check.
But he insisted on going all-out lavish and throwing what amounted to a small festival in honor of all these mutts.
Hilde was grinning at me. She must have misinterpreted my threat about forcing puppies into unwilling homes. She clearly thought I meant I would force people to be altruistic and accept loving pets, rather than my true meaning of just wanting to get rid of the damn dogs.
Hilde said, “I'm sure thanks to all of your efforts, you're going to make a big difference for hundreds of dogs and families today. It's a really awesome thing you're doing, Anya.”
That smile hurt my heart every time I saw it. It looked like a fragile, precious thing that would be easily broken. I had never known anything to be able to break it, once she got started, but I still dreaded the day I'd see something snap that smile in half.
She checked our email (she never checked anything but my inbox when she was on the job, she was too professional for that), and seeing nothing that needed an immediate response, went back to viewing the festivities.
She asked me, “What's your favorite kind of dog, Anya? Do you have any pets?”
My first, natural response would be to say how much I despise dogs and their slobbery, stupid natures. I'd almost be able to stand cats if they didn't make your house smell like piss.
But her open, sunny face was still smiling.
So instead I said, “My father always had German Shepherds. They're beautiful dogs.”
I didn't tell her that he'd threaten to sick the dogs on us and they generally hated us children, due to my father's careful training. But they were beautiful. That part was true.
She nodded. Then she said, wistfully, “My apartment is too small. I'd feel bad getting a dog without a yard for them. Someday, though!”
I realized I had no idea how much we paid her. I asked.
She told me, and I almost choked on the amount. It was half as much as they paid me when I first signed on.
I said, getting hot under the collar of my company t-shirt, “That's an insulting amount of pay for how many hours you work, Hilde. Send an email to HR that they need to get a 20% raise in the works for you immediately, and any delay, they'll have to answer to me for their initial insulting signing offer.”
Her eyes bugged out. She was always shocked whenever someone treated her the way she deserved. Another reason she made my heart hurt when I looked at her.
Not hurt. Twist toward her. Like it was reaching for her to tell her something.
She started to tell me that was too much, she didn't know why I was doing it, but I cut her off with a firm, “Send the email now. Tell them it must be in effect by the next pay day. And you're getting a house. Contact my realtor and have them start looking at properties. Tell them exactly what you want and what your budget is, and if you need any extra at signing or more for the payments, we'll add it into your salary.”
She looked ready to explode or melt. She didn't know what to do at what she perceived as unnecessary, unprompted kindness. I just perceived it as her due.
I told her as much. “I'm not being nice to you, Hilde. I'm demanding you have the life you deserve, compared to how hard you work. I would never have been satisfied with the pay and lifestyle you live, not at a job like this, that demands 60 hours a week. No, if you want a dog to go home too, and a yard for it to play in, you're going to have it. You've earned it.”
Now she looked like she couldn't balance out my angry tone and my complimentary words. So she finally settled on saying both, “Thank you, ma'am, and I'm sorry.”
I said, “Send the emails, and then go pick a dog.”
She quickly typed out the messages to HR and my realtor, then rushed into the aisles and aisles of puppies and dogs we'd assembled. One in particular caught her eye right away.