The cage I’m in squeaks when I move, and the sound makes me picture tiny scratches of the color yellow, like toy lightning. Plus, when I shift, I lose the warm spot I’ve made on the metal. So I stay still. You can smell and hear things best when still. The colors tell you more.
Quit moving, the Doberman in the cage next to me snaps.
I didn’t.
Well, then quit thinking about moving.
I snuff. These cages are no way to build a pack. Humans know nothing about the importance of building strong pack dynamics.
The bell over the Good Side door chimes green.
Good morning! Howdy-do! Hi, hi, hi! The dogs and pups greet the incoming human.
“Morning, Daisy!” Janie says when she gets to me. She stoops to my cage and reaches in. My tail thumps, because petting is a joy like sunshine.
Janie’s voice is creamy thin milk. Janie. That’s the tag of the Woman in Charge around here. She scratches me behind my good ear. “She’s a good girl.”
I am. I am a good girl with one good ear. Useful and good, despite what my old pack said.
The Other Worker comes in next. His tag is Phillip. He squats on his hindquarters to my bottom-row cage. Refreshes my water. Then leaves. Phillip doesn’t look me in the eyes or speak. Ever. I only know the tan color of his voice by his clipped answers to Janie. But I don’t get the feeling he’s evil.
Janie in Charge and the Other Phillip are nice enough. The shades that color their speech and shine on their faces are usually pale, like a cold-weather sunrise. Certainly not bold, so probably not useful.
The bell over the Good Side door rings again, and three humans enter, two full-grown people and a pup. A boy. The cage above me wiggles with glee. People! People! Lookee here! Lookit me! the puppies yap.
People make things interesting, because they can take us Out. A soft glow of hope lights inside me like a firefly. Yellow, but not too yellowy. Hope, but not too hopey.
The bell quiets. There are two doors in this room. One has a bell above it. The bell shows that it’s the Good Side. From my cage, I can see through the clear Good Side door. The Good Side has sunshine behind it. It smells like grass and earth and rain and garbage and running and freedom.
The other door in this room is thick and metal. It slams when it closes. Echoing slams, like trucks with jaws. Dogs who walk through that door smell like fear. Those dogs never return. It’s the Bad Side.
Rumor here is that each dog gets fourteen sunrises before they must go through the door to the Bad Side.
I have two more sunrises before I have to walk through to the Bad Side. I know that means I should muster my cuteness for these humans, but I just can’t do it. False enthusiasm tastes like salt water.
The three humans who entered pause at each cage. Two of them, the full-grown adults, don’t reach through to pet the dogs inside. Unusual. Most humans say chewy pink bubblegum words like ooo and lookee when they peer in at us. Most of them want to touch each one of us, which mixes our scents and makes us smell like dog poo stew. Most of the humans’ voices change to the color of a sunny sky when they visit us, their words rays of sun.
But these humans are different.
Even the boy. He doesn’t reach inside the cages; he doesn’t coo. But his eyes smile. He has a soft glow of hope inside, too. He has fireflies in his heart, like me.
“So, what are we looking for, exactly?” he says.
The Biggest Adult turns. He’s standing apart from the other two. He walks with a limp and a stick. “A dog. You know: Four legs? Fuzzy? Preferably no fleas?” he says, and tries a laugh. No one laughs with him. The statement falls short, like an underthrown tennis ball.
The Biggest Adult sighs. “They tell me it will help, Micah.” He talks like snapping twigs.
The third person is awkward. The Awkward One is not part of their pack. I can tell by his smell; he smells like wild onions, while the other two smell of the same soap. The Awkward One clears his throat. “It will, Victor.” Ugh. His voice is a pinched paw. “And I think this dog looks like a good possibility.” The Awkward One reaches in to Snuffles’s cage. Snuffles is a bulldog mix. He grunts a loud howdy-do.
The Biggest Adult shrugs.
Snuffles turns and farts. So much for you, too, fella.
The humans pass several more cages. They don’t reach in. The colors that swirl over their voices remind me of a storm cloud. It’s all very confusing.
One of the puppies above me will be chosen. Last sunrise, there were nine puppies. This sunrise, there are five. The puppies go through the Good Side door quickly. I think it’s because humans like to watch them grow. Humans place a lot of importance on growth, even when they have nothing to do with it.
The Biggest Adult, whose tag is Victor, I now know, stops and looks at them. Hi, hi, hi! The puppies yip. The Biggest Adult’s mouth ticks up a tad, but the shadows on his face don’t change. Interesting. This fellow doesn’t like the taste of false enthusiasm, either.
I’m looking at his boots. Victor’s boots. They are muddy and sturdy. I like hard work. Hard work is useful. Hard work is a full, round belly.
Victor squats. He groans as he does, a creaky old door. But he’s not old in his skin. His eyes narrow. He sees my torn left ear. No one wants me after they see my torn left ear. I tuck my head sideways so he doesn’t have to look at it.
“That’s Daisy,” Janie says from behind her desk. Janie sits a lot. “She’s a sweet thing, isn’t she? About two years old, we think.”
The boy, the one they labeled with the tag Micah, tilts his head at me. I know head tilts. Head tilts mean difficulties. “Her, Dad? I thought we were looking for a puppy.”
Victor’s eyes are deep like puddles. Puddles of sadness, not playful puddles. Tricky puddles, deep enough to drown in.
“That white spot around her eye looks like a daisy, see?” Janie says. “That’s why we call her that. She’s not the prettiest dog or the smartest dog, but she seems sweet.”
Goodness, Janie. Manners? I am right here.
Victor slowly reaches in and scratches my jaw. “Hello, Miss Daisy.”
Miss Daisy.
Miss.
I sit up.
At last, a human who understands the need for respect.
“Can I see her?” Mr. Victor asks. I decide to call him Mr. Victor, since he affords me the same respect.
The Awkward One steps forward. “I don’t know, Victor,” he says, lemon-sour words. “She’s injured, and it looks like she’s recently had pups. And don’t forget, we only have ten weeks of training under the VA funding. If she can’t be trained in two and a half months, well . . . she might not be our best choice.”
“Dad, did you see these puppies?” Micah says.
Mr. Victor stands abruptly. “Her, please.” His voice has snap, a flapping flag. “Can I see her?”
Janie unlocks my cage. Swings open the door.
I don’t exit.
“See, Victor?” The Awkward One says. “I don’t think she’s right for you.”
“Come, Miss Daisy,” Mr. Victor says sternly. He pats his leg. His voice is full of pride, like a raw T-bone steak.
I walk out of the cage. Sit next to his sturdy, muddy boots. Watch to see what he wants me to do next.
Mr. Victor scratches me under the chin. I look up at him.
His smell is clean but bold, like fear and sweat. And his voice is difficult to read. It’s a mixture of sunset and ghosts and blood. Something is missing from it, too. Something important.
I understand then.
This human doesn’t want me.
This human needs me.
This is where I can prove how useful I am.
“We’ll take her,” Mr. Victor says.
Micah crams his hands in his pockets. He kicks the metal door on my cage, and it swings shut with a purple-bruise clang. “You said I could help pick! You never listen to what I want!”
Micah storms out the Good Side door. This time, the bell above it sounds red, like a warning.