“How long have you worked here?” I ask as she pours out food in bowls, attaches them inside the wire cages, and refills water bottles.
Abby nods. “For two years now. She’s going to sell me the practice when she retires, which is coming sooner rather than later, I think. She’s been doing a lot of traveling lately.”
She moves with surety and efficiency, but she also has a grace about her that’s hard to describe. Amazing posture, fluidity to her movement. Like a dancer, perhaps.
I know she’s stunning. Despite being dressed in jeans and a graphic tee, she almost seems aristocratic with her delicate facial features. Not many women can pull off that haircut, but her face almost demands it.
She’s a doppelgänger for Audrey Hepburn, except her eyes are light green instead of brown, and her hair is midnight black. “Are you from here?”
Abby doesn’t pause in her work, merely shaking her head. “Kentucky.”
Fascinating, and not what I was thinking. “You don’t have a Southern accent.”
She laughs, again sweet, delicate, and tinkling, which matches her petite frame. “Oh, get a few beers in me, and the accent comes right out. But I’ve been gone almost ten years now, so I think it’s tempered a bit.”
Abby moves to a cage with a golden retriever inside who looks to be in rough shape. Her eyes are dull, hair matted, and she’s shivering. Rather than put the bowl inside, Abby leaves the kennel door open and sets the food bowl on the floor.
Stepping back, she squats low and murmurs encouragement. “Come on, sweet girl. I know you’re hungry.”
The dog wags her tail as she slinks out of the cage, looking left and right cautiously.
“Why is she walking funny?” I ask as the dog steps tentatively, picking each paw up high from the floor, as if the tile hurts in some way.
Abby grimaces, shooting me a pained look. “She was rescued from a puppy mill. She was a breeding bitch and has never walked on anything other than the cage she lived in.”
I sit up straighter. “Excuse me?”
Abby nods, but then pins her gaze back on the pathetic dog who seems to be starving and is now wolfing down the food as if she hasn’t eaten in weeks. “Her whole life has been nothing but living in a cage and giving birth to puppies. I’d estimate her to be about five years old, and I bet she’s had twelve litters so far.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“That’s only the tip of the barbarism in these puppy mills,” Abby says with a forlorn sigh.
“What will happen to her?” My eyes are glued to the poor dog who continues to shake like a leaf as she eats, and yet her tail wags with what I think must be happiness to be out of her cage. Abby moves closer and strokes the dog’s snarled coat. She lifts her head and stares at Abby with what I swear is pure gratitude before lowering to the bowl again.
“There are some good foster parents in the area. I’ll get her healthy, and then she’ll get fostered. Hopefully, a nice family will adopt her, and she’ll be able to run and appreciate grass under her toes.”
Bubba lets out a tiny yip, and my eyes snap to him as his body jerks repetitively. Only a dream.
I rub my hand down his fur, and he settles.
When I look back up, the golden retriever is snuffling into the bowl for the last bits of kibble. When she’s done, she doesn’t even look around but scurries into her cage, huddling in the back.
Abby utters some curses under her breath, but they’re loud enough to carry across the room. Motherfucking assholes.
Can’t disagree with that sentiment if that’s how this dog was treated.
Or rather, mistreated.
CHAPTER 3
Abby
Flipping through my contacts, I tap on Cecile Tambry’s number and pray she’ll hear me out.
She answers on the second ring. “What can I do for you, Abby?”
I wince because her tone is curt and standoffish. “I have a sweet girl in need of a foster home.”
“Is she tatted?”
Three words that tell me Cecile will turn me down just like the prior two ladies I talked to this morning. My circle of dog fosters shrinks with every call. “Yes, but—”
“No buts,” Cecile says with a huff. “I’m not getting involved in that. You’re bringing trouble to my doorstep, and it’s illegal.”
“No, not at all,” I rush to assure her. “She was loose, and I captured her.”
“Bullshit,” Cecile snaps. “You know damn well Levi Hellman isn’t about to let a single one of his bitches get loose. Just as I know you’ve somehow managed to steal that dog.”
I lose my temper at Cecile’s sanctimonious tone. “How can you think it’s wrong for me to liberate these—”
“Steal, Abby. You’re stealing.”
“I’m giving these dogs a chance at life,” I snap back.