Montana Vet. Ann Roth
four years ago, had shared the unwelcome news that he was retiring.
Retiring! The poor man’s wife had given him an ultimatum—either leave his career behind and start traveling with her, or live out the rest of his days as a divorced man. His last day was Friday. Emily had no idea where she’d find his replacement, and Rich hadn’t come up with any names, either.
On this warm, sunny day in the second week of September—normal weather for Prosperity, Montana—she’d opened all the windows. She easily heard the collective howls and barks coming from the dog runs in the backyard, where the six abandoned and/or abused animals she was sheltering until she found them good homes were enjoying the day as best as they could. At least they had been. The unhappy sounds made her wonder if they somehow understood this dire news and what it meant.
Because without an on-call veterinarian to come in when necessary, she would have no way of knowing if the animals she took in suffered from a contagious disease, or how to treat those in need of medical attention. She would be forced to close down.
Then where would these abandoned, innocent creatures go? To the pound, where they would probably be euthanized. Emily couldn’t bear the thought.
An annual fund-raiser brought in enough to keep The Wagging Tail afloat, and Emily counted every penny. As yet, the only two people on the payroll were herself, and she took only enough to cover the rent and supplies, and Mrs. Oakes, the part-time office manager.
As busy as Emily was with the shelter, she also ran a website design and management business from home. The work took up considerable time, but was interesting and covered her personal bills, and sometimes subsidized shortages that fund-raising didn’t cover.
But neither her earnings nor the shelter’s budget was enough to pay a veterinarian. Someday. For now, she needed a volunteer, preferably long-term. The trouble was, most of the animal doctors in town worked full-time and then some, devoting any spare time to other, larger facilities. Finding someone willing to come to her little shelter without compensation was difficult.
If that wasn’t enough, Emily needed him or her by the end of the week—just three days from now.
Could the day get any worse?
It could and had. While she was still reeling from Rich’s stunning news, Mrs. Oakes, who worked Tuesday through Friday, had called in sick with a case of stomach flu. Edgar, the senior citizen volunteer who answered the phones on Mondays, had been busy with other commitments, leaving Emily to man the front desk. Then the Tates, the couple scheduled to foster and, fingers crossed, adopt the high-strung red setter that had been at the shelter for nearly a week, had postponed until Friday. With the kennel filled to capacity, Emily had counted on freeing up the dog’s cage for another animal in need.
Instead she’d had to turn away two dogs. She’d spent several hours calling everyone she knew, pleading for someone to take in one or both animals. With a lot of begging, she’d finally found them temporary homes. They needed to be seen by a vet, and someone needed to pay for those services.
Her head was pounding now, and her empty stomach was demanding food. With a sigh, she stood and carried her half-empty mug of tepid coffee through the archway off the front office, which had once been a living room. A short walk down the hall led to her small office, formerly a den. There she retrieved her purse from under the desk and dug through it for aspirin. She downed the pills with a healthy slug of the coffee—a combination guaranteed to give her stomach fits if she didn’t eat posthaste.
Until now, she hadn’t had the time. “I need lunch,” she said.
Susannah, the three-legged whippet Emily had taken in and adopted when she’d first opened the shelter, had been napping on the doggy bed in the corner. Now she trotted over—if you could call her odd, limping gait a trot.
Although Emily lived in the apartment upstairs, every morning she stowed a sack lunch in the kitchen on the main floor. Susannah accompanied her there, licking her chops and wagging her tail.
“You already had your meal,” Emily said, but the dog knew she was a soft touch.
Moments later, she returned to Mrs. Oakes’s desk with the sack lunch and a fresh cup of coffee. Susannah was excited now, yipping and grinning as only she could. “Oh, all right,” Emily said. “But first, sit!”
She quickly obeyed. Emily always marveled over that. After all, Susannah had only one front leg. When she’d arrived at the shelter at the age of about one year, she hadn’t even been house-trained.
“Good girl,” Emily cooed. Reaching into the lunch bag, she pulled out the dog treat Susannah had known was there. Seconds later, content, the dog settled down on the braided rug nearby.
Emily was munching on her sandwich when the two-way radio buzzed. Caroline, one of the regular volunteers, was out back with the dogs.
“I have to leave soon,” she said. “Do you want me to put everyone back in the kennel?”
“They’ve been out for a while now, and I cleaned their cages and filled their food and water dishes, so yes. Thanks, Caroline—you’re the best.” Emily meant that. The volunteers who gave so much of their time and effort kept the shelter going.
She finished her lunch, sipping her coffee and culling through applications from the high school kids who wanted to volunteer this semester. Doing so would earn them community-service credit, an annual requirement for students at all four of Prosperity’s high schools.
Suddenly Susannah woofed, moved awkwardly to her feet and loped toward the door with her tail wagging. It had taken almost two years of patience and TLC, but she’d finally learned to trust people. The bell over the door jingled.
“Come here.” Emily snapped her fingers. The dog obeyed, but wasn’t happy about it.
An instant later, a girl entered the office. She looked to be fourteen or so, and was tall and gangly, just as Emily had been at that age. Her shoulder-length, light brown hair had bright red streaks in it, and bangs that same red all but obscured her large eyes. She moved hesitantly toward Emily, her obvious self-consciousness at odds with the sullen look on her face.
It was that contrast that reminded Emily of her own painful adolescent years, as a lonely teen whose mother worked long hours to put a roof over their heads, after Emily’s father had left.
“Hi.” She smiled. “I’m Emily Miles, the founder of The Wagging Tail.”
“Hi.” Not even a semblance of a smile.
Susannah jumped up and raced forward with her tail waving. Smiling now, which did wonders for her face, the girl petted the happy canine. “Cool dog. What happened to his leg?”
“Actually, she’s female. Her name is Susannah. When she arrived at the shelter, she had a bad infection in her foreleg. We had to amputate.”
The girl looked horrified. As if knowing they were talking about her, Susannah woofed softly and retreated to the rug.
“Some of the dogs we take in are in pretty bad shape,” Emily said. “But with love, patience and a good home, miracles can happen. I’ll bet you’re here because you want to do a semester of community service at The Wagging Tail.”
The girl’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know?”
“It’s that time of year. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Taylor.”
“Nice to meet you. Which school do you attend?”
“Trenton High.”
The school was less than a mile from the shelter. Emily nodded. “Are you a freshman?”
“Sophomore.”
“Okay. Do you have any experience with dogs?”
Taylor looked at her as if she were crazy. “I like them.”
“Have you ever owned or taken care of one?”