Sam passed Riverside Church and walked another thirty feet to the cheap laminated sign screwed beside the entrance of a squat concrete building: “Finally Home Animal Shelter—A Safe Place.” She glanced down at the body in her arms and recalled how much she hated irony.
Sam shoved open the door and Nick trotted inside, following the sound of human voices and muffled barking. After a few deep breaths that didn’t make her feel any better, she followed him.
Finally Home was one of only two city-assisted no-kill animal shelters and adoption centers in Manhattan. And Sam knew that if she didn’t figure something out with the city, soon there would be only one. In her case the city assistance came in the form of a meager stipend for personnel costs and a very valuable no-cost multi-year lease. Morgan had ensured that the lease prohibited Sam from offering outside veterinary care and, thus, any competition—a battle Sam had fought and lost.
Sam was at the very end of the lease period and so far, all efforts to convince the city to renew or extend it had been unsuccessful. The worth of the shelter property in these days of fiscal restraint simply dwarfed the importance of keeping some dogs alive.
The shelter currently housed twenty-four dogs of various breeds (often within the same dog) and varying sizes. Most of the dogs had been with her for months and a few for over a year—drop-offs, rescues, or leave-behinds.
Sam was long past believing that she would ever find loving adoptive families for most of her shelter dogs, but she still said a little prayer every time someone came into the shelter to look—and held back tears and anger when they left empty-handed. Her dogs were too old and too damaged—physically and emotionally—to compete with the beautiful and energetic puppy mill traffic. The whole situation was all the more tragic because she knew those same cute puppies that now inspired such oohs and aahs likely would walk through her door—or that of a less compassionate shelter—a few years from now. She just prayed the city would let her continue to be present for them when that happened.
Sam had been living on the hope that she would be able to start an animal sanctuary. She dreamed about buying an abandoned farm someplace where these and other creatures who had seen the worst of humanness could live out the rest of their lives in safety and peace, beyond the ever-present shadow of cages. Cages sucked. They were better than the needle these dogs certainly would have faced at the other city-run shelters, but in the world of a no-kill shelter, cages were an unacceptable ending.
The promise of a sanctuary was starting to look more and more self-delusional. The equation was straightforward. A sanctuary required land. Land cost money. After Sam was done paying for those shelter expenses the city didn’t cover, there was precisely enough money left over for absolutely nothing. Frustrating did not quite capture her situation. Sam knew she had become a vet and started this shelter for good and honorable reasons. It was just that, as of late, she found it hard to remember those reasons at all. And when she did remember, those reasons more often than not simply failed to overcome her feelings of inadequacy and failure.
Two of the shelter’s longest-term residents greeted Sam, their tails wagging so hard that their entire back ends shared in the movement. Blinker, the golden retriever, had come to Sam a year ago with one eyeball lost to infection. Kendall had brought in Scrabble, a shepherd-Rottweiler mix, at about the same time. Scrabble took his name from the letters someone had carved into his back. Sam was always a bit pragmatic when it came to naming her charges.
Sam usually gave Blinker, Scrabble, and a handful of other dogs free range of the shelter during the day. This was a poor antidote to the cages and an inadequate remedy for the guilt that came from knowing she couldn’t bring all the shelter dogs home with her. Daily time out of the cages was simply “the best she could do”—a phrase that Sam had grown to hate. Sam gave the dogs rubs, scratches, and hugs until they calmed down.
Greg Wright, a tall black man in his forties with the lithe body of the professional dancer he had once been, threw Sam a distracted wave from the reception desk. “I understand, sir,” he said into the phone. “Yes… The moment I see her… I said I understand… English is my first language, sir,” Greg snarled. “And my hearing is fine, so you don’t need to repeat it a third time.” Greg slammed the phone down and turned to Sam. “Wow. You look like shit.”
Greg had come to Finally Home from Morgan’s hospital as Sam’s only full-time employee—part vet tech, part office manager and accountant, part protector, part therapist, and constant reality check. Sam thought of the news of the dead child as she lifted the bundle in her arms. “Bad morning. Don’t start.”
Greg’s tone softened. “Sorry. Anyone you knew?”
Sam shook her head. “Can you call to have him picked up? Round trip, OK?”
It is illegal to bury a dog body in New York City, so Sam had the shelter animals cremated once they passed. The ashes came back to her in little colorful metal canisters that would have been more appropriate for jelly beans than for the small discarded envelopes of enormous souls. She kept all these stacked on a shelf in her office and their collar tags around her neck with a promise that she would bury the canisters and the pendant in a meadow at her imaginary sanctuary. Until then, the ever-growing pendant and line of canisters provided a stark and constant reminder of her promise.
Sam stared at the pile of papers sitting in front of Greg.
“You want to know?” he asked.
“No.”
“Overdue invoices, nasty-grams from the city followed by super-nasty-grams from the city, your insurance payment must be wired within twenty-four hours or it will be canceled, and a denial of your appeal of the appeal of your denial of a hearing before the city council. Oh, and Morgan’s lawyer just called.”
“I thought I said no.”
“Sorry, but here on earth”—Greg grabbed a handful of papers and waved them in the air—“they don’t seem to take no for an answer.”
“It’ll work out.”
“Really? You’re going with that?”
“Why not?”
“Because you always say that, and it’s never true.”
“Never?”
“Never,” Greg confirmed.
“Then think of it as aspirational.”
Greg shook his head. “I met all my own aspirations as of last week and I’m not due for any more until the next decade.”
Sam knew she couldn’t keep up with Greg this morning. “Is our new community service assignment here yet?”
“Mother Teresa? Oh, yes.”
“Let me guess. You had words?”
“Just one word. ‘Fuck you.’”
“That’s two words.”
“Not the way I say it. Judge Allerton’s little con enrichment program didn’t do you any favors this time.”
“Look for the large mass of white flesh with the evil attitude in the break room. And please find us some money, dear child.”
Sam carried the dog’s body to the small room toward the back of the shelter that functioned as the staff break room, television lounge, kitchen, and emergency bedroom for those nights when someone got stuck because of a sick dog. She was far beyond annoyed even before she saw the handwritten note on the closed break room door: “Do Not Enter. Absolutely No Admittance. Procedure in Progress.” And under that, in large block letters: “THIS MEANS YOU!”
Sam ripped the note off the door and pushed into the room.
Beth Cohen’s generous form, enrobed in a New York University sweat shirt and sweat pants, was flopped on the lounge couch. The television blared some news channel, but Beth ignored it; she was plugged into her iPhone, reading People magazine and making her way through a box of Dunkin’ Munchkins and a can of Tab balanced on her sweat shirt. She looked at least ten years older than her real age of thirty-four. From the amount of crumbs and powdered sugar on her chest, Sam guessed Beth had been at this for a while.
“Is this yours?” Sam shook the crumpled sign at her.
Beth removed an earbud, but didn’t look up. “Yep. I see it didn’t quite work, though.”
“And what procedure exactly are you referring to?” Sam asked, each word separated by a hostile beat or two. If Sam had been a dog, she would’ve flattened her ears and drawn her lips back over her teeth.
“Eating,” Beth said. She grabbed another Munchkin and popped it into her mouth. “You have to be very careful when you eat these round things lying down. Don’t you think—and here I’m asking you as a medical professional—they should’ve made these square?” Beth eyed another Munchkin. “That way they wouldn’t be able to roll away from you when you stick your hand in the box. Little bastards.”
Sam yanked open the refrigerator door and tossed old ice cream cartons and frozen pizza boxes into the trash, clearing a spot in the freezer section. She gently placed the stiffening shrouded body into an open spot between two of her microwavable frozen dinners. The little bundle looked so pathetically alone in the makeshift morgue, just like…
Sam slammed the door and spun on Beth. “Clearly you don’t understand the terms of this arrangement.”
Beth finally met Sam’s glare. “My understanding, Doctor, is that it was this or cleaning garbage off the side of the highway in an orange jumpsuit. Not a flattering color for me. Makes me look like a pumpkin. So here I am.”
“I expect you will act as professionally here as you would in front of your own clients.”
Beth laughed.
“That’s funny to you?” Sam asked.
“Hysterical, actually. My clients walked into my office on Park Avenue and held their hand out to be kissed by the doorman. They carried Prada bags and wore Christian Louboutin shoes. They wouldn’t even get their dry cleaning done in this neighborhood.” Beth put the bud back in her ear and closed her eyes.
All of Sam’s anger from the morning’s events suddenly had a single focus and it was personal. Before she knew what she was doing, Sam had yanked out both of Beth’s earbuds.
“Yeow!” Beth’s eyes flashed open.
Sam lowered her face to an inch above Beth’s. “You’d better be prepared to do your job or explain to Judge Allerton why you violated the terms of your probation. If you screw up, you’d best go home and pack your toothbrush, because I’ll be sure he gives you back your time. Now, you’ve got five minutes to get off your butt and be useful.”
Luke, the other shelter employee, stepped into the room. “Need you up front, boss,” he said in his gravelly voice.
Luke was sixty-seven years old, with a pockmarked face, mischievous blue eyes, a long white ponytail braid down his back, and still-powerful arms covered in ink. At a quick glance, the tattoos appeared to be a meaningless jumble of colors and letters. But if you took the time and asked him a few pointed questions, you would learn that Luke’s arms were layered with the history of his life. On his right arm, the symbol of his marine unit in Vietnam mingled with the address of his apartment in Haight-Ashbury during the seventies, his prison inmate number, and a portrait of the Dalai Lama. On his left arm, the name of his daughter shared space with “God Loves Dogs and Brooklyn” and the word Empyrean, which Sam understood to be the name of a computer program Luke had been working on for years with some of his old war buddies but never spoke about.
“Can it wait?” Sam asked.
Luke shook his head. His face seemed particularly drawn and dark this morning. Sam’s stomach lurched. Despite his appearance, Luke was usually the most upbeat of their group.
When Sam arrived at reception with Luke and Greg, she immediately knew this was going to be a particularly bad day in her life.
Men in suits. They had never—not once—brought her good news.
The three men introduced themselves and gave their titles too quickly for Sam to process. After she heard “Office of the City Attorney,” her attention remained focused on the papers in blue legal backing they carried.
The one who looked like a turtle cleared his throat. “Can we speak someplace privately?”
“If this is about the shelter, it involves all of us.”
“Very well,” Turtle said. “As you know, Dr. Lewis, your final appeal regarding the lease has been denied.”
“Yeah, I just heard,” Sam answered. “I guess I’ll be filing another appeal.”
“There are no further appeals to file,” Turtle said, handing her the stack of papers. “I am sorry, but this shelter will be closed thirty days from today. You will need to place all dogs presently in the shelter by that date or they will be relocated to the general city shelter population.”
The papers trembled in Sam’s hand. “But that will put them on a fourteen-day adopt-or-euthanize schedule.”
“That is correct,” Turtle responded.
“That’s a death sentence for these dogs,” Luke said.
Turtle suddenly took a great interest in his own shoes. “I’m not happy about this either. You’ve had plenty of notice. We were all hoping you were making other arrangements for these animals. This result was inevitable. The city cannot sustain your use of this property.”
Inevitable? Sam thought she had been trying to manage the line between hope and denial, and only now realized that she had been traversing the artificially verdant land of the latter the whole time. “I’m going to need more time to place the dogs. Please.” She heard and hated the desperation in her own voice.
“I’m sorry,” Turtle said. “I really am. But the decision’s been made. I have no more time to give you.”
Turtle and his friends quickly retreated from the shelter in silence. Sam thought of undertakers leaving the grieving family to mourn in private.
“I’ll call your lawyer,” Greg offered. “Let’s get him over here and strategize. Maybe a new lawsuit.”
Sam shook her head. “I had to let him go after the last appeal. There’s no more money.”
“I have some money,” Luke said.
“Me too,” Greg added.
That was when Sam really wanted to cry. It was more than just losing the shelter and the dogs. It was the fact that they continued to believe in her when she knew how misplaced that belief was. “Thank you both for offering. Really, it means so much to know you’d do that,” she said, trying to swallow her misery. “But I think they’ve got us. We just need to admit that the city is going to do this.”
“What about the sanctuary then?” Luke asked. “Maybe this is an opportunity for you to—”
Sam cut him off. “Even if we found the right farm, we would still need to raise over half a million dollars to buy it and set up operations. All of us working full-time couldn’t raise that in five years, let alone thirty days.”
“Wow,” Greg said, and slumped against a wall. “You really sound like you’re giving up.”
“I guess I am.”
“You’re just having a bad day,” Luke volunteered. “It will pass.”
How could she make them understand that it would not pass? That this was where all of her experiences had brought her? That she was so angry at being tired and tired of being angry, of losing this fight every damn day, of expecting the people out there to care and being disappointed when they didn’t, of the flow of the unwanted and rejected, of all the goddamn cages? Maybe her ex-boyfriend Charlie had called it correctly after all. We are just schmucks and everyone out there is laughing at us because we’ve deluded ourselves into believing we’re making a difference. “If we can improve just one life, make one human-animal connection, then we will have accomplished real change,” she had always said. Such blah-blah. A rationalization to redefine success in the face of obvious failure. What a crock.
Still, there was no point in dragging Luke and Greg down to her reality. They would find out soon enough. In the meantime she would work to get them new jobs and confirm the continued viability of Plan B. It was the best she could do.
“Maybe you’re right,” Sam told Luke with as much of a smile as she could muster. “I’ll start making some calls and see what new options we have.” That answer appeared to satisfy them for the moment and they left her.
Sam locked herself in her office and placed the call she never thought she would need to make.
“Bill Ackerman, please,” Sam said into the phone. Bill was Sam’s counterpart at the only other city-supported no-kill shelter in Manhattan. Sam and Bill also had a little personal history together that made anything more than rare interaction uncomfortable.
After a few seconds, a deep voice came on. “This is Bill.”
“Bill, it’s Sam. There’s something I need to know.”
“OK, I am not currently in a relationship and yes, I still have the hots for you.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too.” Sam didn’t respond and Bill dropped the banter. “OK, Dr. Lewis, shoot.”
“Do we still have our deal?”
Bill was quiet for a moment. “So it’s true? They’ve pulled your lease?”
Will not cry. Will not cry. “Yup. Looks like it’s final this time. Thirty days.” No cry. No cry.
“Bastards. Yeah, we’ve still got a deal. I’ll take whoever you can’t place. You can come and visit whenever you want. Do you have another job lined up?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll keep my ears open.”
“Thanks, Bill. This is a big load off my mind.”
“You would do it for me. That was the deal… You maybe want to get a drink later to talk about it?” More beats of silence from Sam. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Maybe sometime soon. Just not tonight.”
“I won’t hold you to that. But it’s nice to know.”
Sam hung up just before the body-racking sobs she’d been holding back finally exploded.