I

Dog Days

(Lena)

This job is bittersweet.

You don’t sign up for this business unless you live, sleep, and eat challenges.

Because no girl in her right mind dreams of spending her Friday evening cleaning up puddles of puppy pee.

I mean, it’s not that I mind. The puppies are adorable, bouncy little balls of golden floof, still finding their paws when they’re not mouthing everything in sight. Who am I to judge them for not knowing how to hold their bladders yet?

At their age, I probably couldn’t either.

But I love my job, urine and all.

Maybe I’d skip janitor duty if I could. But you don’t get the sparkle in life without taking out the trash.

So, here I am, mopping and disinfecting until my arms hurt. It’s just before closing, and I’m doing my very best not to eavesdrop on Dr. Ezzie’s conversation like the shameless rat I am.

Easier said than done when her office door is cracked open.

And I was born curious. Came out of the hospital wanting to know everything about everyone, so yes, my ears perk up at the concern in my boss’s voice.

Not good.

I can’t quite make out the words, but I don’t need to when her tone gives away so much. That sad, clipped edge in her voice says the news she’s getting isn’t sunshine and rainbows.

I finish cleaning and flush the dirty water from the bucket down the sink in the back room. Even from here, I can hear the way Dr. Ezzie’s tone rises and falls in the background, this nervous rhythm with a slight hush that hints she’s trying so hard not to overreact.

My heart hurts.

It has to be about her folks again.

Last week, her elderly father had a nasty fall and broke his hip.

That’s what happens when people get old—just like animals—but it doesn’t make it suck any less. Dr. Ezzie came in frazzled this morning, straight from the hospital, trading one bone-white center for sick creatures for another.

Straight from looking out for her dad to looking out for us.

As for her mom . . . well, I guess the jury’s out on whether she’s still all there. The last time she visited, her mother didn’t recognize her.

The thought hits me with anxiety.

It makes me worry for my own mom one day, and mourn the way I’ll never get a chance to face love and frailty with my dad because he’s already gone. But that’s not the only reason I’m worried today.

Why does this feel like a bad omen for Pawsome Hearts?

We’re a small clinic. One of those scrappy family-run businesses that put the well-being of our furry, feathered, scaly patients above all else. Dr. Ezzie drives the whole operation.

She’s the entire reason I applied for a position here, and I’ve loved it ever since.

But if she has to quit to play full-time caregiver or just because the job becomes too much when she’s got so much on her plate—

I don’t know.

I don’t have a clue what that means for the clinic without its owner.

And honestly, that scares me.

There’s no one standing by to swoop in and fill her shoes, to give us a fighting chance in a crowded Seattle market.

Without Dr. Ezzie, Pawsome Hearts won’t exist.

Not without a buyout from one of those big corporate places where they count dollar signs more than healthy animals. I can only pray that doesn’t happen.

Having our supplies and every hour I work micromanaged to “streamline” efficiency is not what I signed up for.

I glance at my smartwatch. It’s eight o’clock now—closing time.

Finally.

I head to the door to flip the sign and make sure it’s locked, pausing at the window to glance over the property.

Across the courtyard, on the edge of the parking lot, there’s the building for the kennels that backs up to the park, where dogs are bedding down for the evening. Keith, our lone night shift boarding guy, gives me a friendly wave as he circles back inside to check on them.

For Seattle, Pawsome Hearts is a unicorn. One of those rare overgrown green spaces bursting with small-town vibes in the big city, where people still know each other’s names and greet you with a smile.

No, I wouldn’t dare change a thing, even if our daily operations demand it.

When I first hired on, we had more kennel workers for boarding. We had larger kennels too.

It’s been a tough year. Even without Dr. Ezzie leaking deets about her finances, I know that.

It’s pretty impossible to miss when we’ve had to make cuts left, right, and center.

I suppose I should be happy, though.

I still get to work here.

I still get to help awesome pets and mend their owners’ worried hearts. All in a day’s work for a tireless vet tech who runs on iced lattes and ginseng tea.

Hopefully that won’t change.

I’m still mulling that over when I see people approaching the door. Just before I can reach them to say we’re closed, the bell jingles.

Great. I was so distracted I left it unlocked.

I instantly know this won’t be an easy job.

Not because of the dog but because of the people bringing it in.

They’re picture perfect, like they were built from the ground up with Olympian genes and born to make cameras smile. They look like they know their best angles better than their own names.

The man—he’s a giant.

Insanely tall with thick, dark hair pushed back off his face and flashing blue eyes that stop me in my tracks.

Pretty boy doesn’t do him justice.

Not when he’s billboard pretty, all short, trimmed beard and sculpted muscle and this big lopsided smile that suggests he’s used to getting his way.

Late twenties or early thirties, I’d guess.

Although he looks casual, dressed down in a crisp T-shirt and shorts, his outfit has that timeless quality that tells me everything he’s wearing drips money.

Not to mention the Apple Watch with the designer wristband on his arm. That gold looks real, and it’s totally not the default rubber wristband those watches come with.

There’s something else too.

The way he carries himself has an aura. Something like raw confidence except sharper, more intense—pure command, maybe.

Or maybe I’m just that helpless against staggering good looks that practically give him a glowing head like an Orthodox saint. He’s the kind of visceral handsome that punches you in the face.

Beside him, the blonde is also tall, though she barely reaches his shoulder height. Statuesque would be a good description. She has severe pouty features that look like they’ve been carved from marble by a sculptor intent on capturing resting bitchface in grim realism.

By the way she holds herself, hip out and breasts pushed up, I’m almost certain she is a model.

She’s also sneering at me before I’ve said a single word.

Bad move. It’s way too late for this kind of client.

But there’s a wiggling corgi in the man’s arms with a floppy pink tongue and sad whale eyes that say he’d rather not be here.

Me too, little guy.

I feel for the corgi. I’m already no fan of his owners, and they’ve been here for ten seconds.

Although I have to admit: The man is hot.

Like, not just a little bit hot. The blow-your-socks-off, every-woman’s-dirty-secret kind of hot. Rugged and piercing like he makes workouts and stern glares his whole personality.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

But in my experience, I know guys like him. Too good looking, made from old family fortunes and tech money. They don’t have much else to fall back on.

At least he’s smiling, though.

I can’t say the same for Miss Scowlypants.

“Hi,” I say, plastering on my own fake smile. “I’m sorry, but we just closed. If it’s an emergency, there’s a local animal hospital over in—”

“We need a quick look.” The man dials his smile up another notch while his eyes harden. Oh God. I practically need shades. “We found this little guy while we were hiking, hiding under a stack of driftwood. He seems dehydrated—he’s been panting like hell, anyway.”

Hmph.

I catch myself nodding before I can grimace. I just said we were closed, but here I am, ready to come rushing to the rescue.

Wow, he’s good.

“The air’s pure soot today. All the smoke from the wildfires,” he continues. “With the heat, I wanted to make sure his lungs are good. You know, just in case he’s having an allergic reaction or something to all this crap in the atmosphere.”

Ugh.

He has a point.

There is a lot of smoke dusting Seattle lately—a pattern that keeps repeating way too often during our summers. Today it’s that hazy, slightly grey smog hanging around that makes your nostrils burn like you’ve just inhaled seawater.

The fires up in British Columbia haven’t spread down to Washington, thank God, but the smoke has drifted south.

Usually does, but this year it’s hitting earlier and it’s lingering.

He’s also right—animals can suffer plenty from breathing it. The poor dog’s tongue is hanging out, meaning the little guy probably is dehydrated. His sides keep rising and falling with each breath, a little more than they should.

I bet he’s hungry, too, especially if they don’t know how long he was lost out there.

Blondie McScowlyface rolls her eyes like a cheerleader in a ’90s sitcom. She’s wearing winged eyeliner that looks so dramatic it practically reaches her ears.

Catlike, definitely.

It’s a look, for sure.

“She said no,” she whines, and to absolutely no one’s surprise, her voice is as grating as her sour pout. “God, Brady. Why can’t you ever take no for an answer?”

Brady, huh?

It feels oddly good to put a name to his ridiculously handsome face.

“Because I want him checked out,” Brady says firmly, flashing her a pointed look.

“Yeah, but how is this dog our problem?” She folds her arms, tapping the toe of her designer boot on the floor. “Just drop him off with animal control and be done with it.”

Yep, it’s not just the face.

Raging bitch confirmed.

I have to bite the tip of my tongue and choke down my disgust.

Customer face on.

Even when the customer has a lump of coal instead of a beating heart.

Even when Brady isn’t much better, barging in after hours and demanding we do something. But at least his heart’s in the right place.

If I could throw this woman out on her butt, I would, but I can’t do that to the little guy squirming in Brady’s arms, and I can’t give Dr. Ezzie a lawsuit either.

One of these days, my soft spot for animals will get me into trouble. But that’s the whole mission at Pawsome Hearts—healthy paws and claws first and always.

“Hold on, I’ll go ask my boss,” I say, leading them to the closest exam room. “If you guys can just wait here for a second, I’ll be right back.”

The blonde rolls her eyes and immediately sinks into the single available seat, making a face like its plastic coating feels offensive to her skin. Her boyfriend sets the dog down on the table, smoothing a hand gently over its big ears.

His ears, I correct myself.

The dog’s coat looks a little matted, but his butt wiggles as his tail wags and he licks Brady’s fingers. For some reason, I linger on the scene.

His hands are big. Easy to notice from the way they span the corgi’s back and neck, but they’re affectionate too. Soft and soothing.

The dog clearly loves the attention, leaning into his palm.

I’m oddly transfixed.

Look, it’s not like I’m doubting he can be nice to animals. Most people are—I like to think of it as a baseline morality test.

Either you’re kind to the innocent beings we share the planet with, or you’re a shitty person.

Easy.

But that also doesn’t mean you’re an angel if you show some basic human decency. It just means you’re probably not a demon.

Brady gives me another high-voltage smile.

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” he says, like he’s expecting me to curtsy.

Bitchface rolls her eyes to the ceiling again and huffs loudly.

Obviously I’m nothing but another nuisance in her oh-so-rough existence.

It must be so terrible, strutting around the world when you’re rich and beautiful. I wonder what fancy dinner reservation the corgi rescue interrupted.

Considering dog-whisperer Brady is with Possessed Barbie in the first place, he can’t be your normal, everyday upstanding person, regardless of how much this corgi adores scritch-scratches behind the ear.

“Sure.” I nod, smile, and close the door behind me.

Dr. Ezzie’s door is still cracked. I rap on it gently, trying to ignore the heavy silence inside her office.

“Hey, Doc?” I call. “We have a couple here with an abandoned dog, and I wondered if you’d be okay giving the poor thing a quick look? The air’s pretty rancid today, and he doesn’t look too comfortable.”

Although if that tail was any indication, he’s not feeling too awful.

Dogs aren’t like people—if they have any serious issues, they usually show it. Lethargy, lack of enthusiasm, lack of appetite. Lack of responsiveness to affection.

Still, it’s not my place to say.

But I don’t get a response.

I push the door open, revealing Dr. Ezzie, and I do a double take. Her mouth is pressed tight, and her eyes are red.

Guilt punches me in the stomach.

I was right: Whatever was on that call wasn’t good news.

And now I’ve gone and dragged her out of her cave before she was ready.

But I don’t let my face reveal my guilt. Maybe she knows it looks obvious she’s been crying, but that doesn’t mean I need to stare and make her feel worse.

I don’t need to look shocked.

Dr. Ezzie never cries.

In the years I’ve worked here, I’ve never seen her shed a single tear. Even yesterday, when she got the call about her dad’s fall and rushed to the hospital, there was nothing but strong determination on her face.

The guilt in my belly tightens into a knot.

Something must be horribly wrong.

But she forces a smile anyway, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Certainly, Lena. Thanks for showing them in. Anything I can do to help.”

She stands.

“They’re in Room B,” I say too brightly.

Yeah. No one will hand me an Oscar anytime soon for my acting.

I just try to cling to my calm even though I’m stressing like crazy. My boss so doesn’t need this today.

She follows me to the exam room, though, where Blondie scrolls TikTok with the volume cranked up while her obscenely hot boy toy strokes the dog’s back.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Ezzie,” Dr. Ezzie says coolly, her professionalism snapped back in place. “How can I help?”

Brady glances at me before saying, “We found this boy on a hike down by the beach, stuck under some driftwood and panting like mad. Don’t know how long he was there. I figured it was long enough with the bad air.”

I can’t help it—I look out the window, staring at the evening haze painting gloom over everything.

It’s a minor miracle the dog is even here.

What kind of man goes hiking in this black lung environment? A masochist? Some health freak who puts muscle and endurance over long-term lung capacity?

Then again, judging by his build, I shouldn’t be surprised.

“He was whimpering when I tried to coax him out. He wouldn’t come,” he continues, “but my driver had some beef jerky, and we caught him eventually. No collar or anything. He’s a friendly pup.”

His driver?

I have to stop myself from snorting.

Seattle money is annoying.

Young Seattle money is fucking infuriating.

Oh, I’m sure he feels like he deserves a Purple Heart today, courageously taking precious time away from living like a prince to breathe some smog and help a lost corgi. All with his hired help stepping in, because God forbid he do anything himself.

For a second, I try imagining what that must be like. Having someone there to wait on you hand and foot.

Nope. Can’t picture it.

I’ve worked hard for everything I have. That doesn’t make me better than him, no, but it sure as hell doesn’t make him better than me.

“Let’s have a look and see if he’s chipped,” Dr. Ezzie says, once she’s given the corgi a quick inspection. “Ah, here we are. Lena, can you grab the owner’s info, please?”

I step up to the computer as she scans the dog’s chip, clicking through the database as Dr. Ezzie advises Brady and Blondie what to do.

As we suspected, our boy is a little dehydrated and his lungs are irritated, but otherwise he’s unharmed.

I’d bet my bottom dollar that Ice Queen over here doesn’t have any intention of caring for the corgi a minute longer than necessary. She must be counting the seconds until they can leave.

It’s a little impressive, to be honest, to be that heartless and self-centered. God must’ve missed her when he was passing out empathy.

As if she can sense what I’m thinking, she glances at me, her mouth pinched in a frown. On anyone else, it would be unflattering, but she somehow manages to pull it off.

Pouty. Picture perfect. Evil.

I give back a little smile.

Just a tad patronizing, because if she thinks her looks will do her any favors here, she’s dead wrong.

“His lungs sound okay,” Dr. Ezzie says, checking the corgi again. “Though he should stay indoors until the air clears up.” She checks her watch. “If you’d like, you can stay another hour for observation.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Brady sounds grateful. “I’d definitely like to keep him here as long as you can give us—or until his owner comes to pick him up. I’m happy to pay for that too. Just send me the bill.”

Blondie huffs loudly.

Holy shit, if she keeps that up, I will punch her.

How can anyone be so dismissive with an animal in need?

“His name is Charlie,” I announce from the desk. “I’ve got his owner’s number here—I’ll just step out and give her a call.”

Dr. Ezzie gives me a proud smile. “Yes. Thank you so much, Lena.”

It’s just my duty.

Regardless of who brings in a pet, I’m always at my best. It’s the least they deserve—just like how Charlie needs to go back to his family.

“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” I hear Brady saying. “Thanks again for taking us in. We appreciate you making sure he’s okay after normal business hours.”

“Of course.”

He’s making it harder to hate him.

Sigh.

I shut the door and block out the rest of the conversation so I can make the call.

Our receptionist, Trish, has gone home for the evening—and given how quiet it was, I said she could head home early if she wanted and I’d help cover the phones.

Friday evening and all.

So many companies give that spiel about how they’re family, but that’s genuinely how it is here. My colleagues are more than coworkers.

My heart lurches when I think about Dr. Ezzie and her bad news again. Whatever it is, the odds are stacked against any big improvements. For Esmerelda Serena and her family, there’s just a long way down.

Tick tock, the empty room announces.

Mom always said I had a morbid streak. Always prone to stressing about worst-case scenarios and black-swan disasters.

I suppose that’s true, but what’s the harm in being aware?

Just knowing what the worst might look like.

Just in case, y’know.

That’s one life lesson I learned the hard way, and one I’ll never forget.

“Hello?” The owner has an elderly quiver in her voice as she answers.

“Hi, is this Mrs. Hernandez?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Lena from Pawsome Hearts veterinary clinic over on Edmunds Street in Beacon Hill. I’m calling about your dog, Charlie.”

“Oh, you’ve found the little Houdini?” The relief in her voice is palpable. “Thank you! I’ve been worried sick. My niece was out walking him yesterday, and he broke off his collar and escaped. We were sure something dreadful had happened—and it was so out of character for him!”

“He was found down by the beach, from what I know. We’ll make sure he gets some food and water. Any dietary restrictions?”

“No, and thank you, dear. My poor Annie, she was so distraught. She’s walked him hundreds of times and there’s never been any trouble. But all it takes is once. Is he truly okay? He wasn’t hurt?”

“Nope, just a little dehydrated. Plus some lung irritation with the bad air. He should stay indoors overnight until the sky clears up. When would you like to pick him up?”

“Oh shoot.” She speaks to someone else on her end, her voice muffled. “We’d come tonight, but we’re out of town—that’s why my niece was looking after him. And tonight she has a night shift, I’m afraid. Is it possible for you to keep him? Just for tonight?”

Oof.

I really should say no.

We’re a small clinic with limited kennel space. It’s already crowded with our regular dogs, and Keith is running himself ragged. But there’s nowhere else for Charlie to go.

I can’t bring myself to turn her down.

“Can I call you back? I’ll check with the owner and see what I can do,” I say instead. “You said you can grab him tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes, absolutely! Thank you so much.” Her voice breaks. “I wasn’t sure we’d ever see our baby again. Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome. I’ll be in touch.”

She thanks me again, and I smile as I end the call.

This is what the job is really all about. Making a difference for the people and pets who need it most.

The right owners—the good ones—they’re always grateful.

As for the bad ones . . . well, I don’t like to think about them. I tell myself there’s a special place in hell with their seat reserved.

I scoop up the card reader as I head back to the exam room. At least they’re paying customers. God knows the clinic needs it with how tight things have been.

“Good news,” I say as I open the door. “We’ve found—”

I stop in my tracks as I see Brady holding up his phone, posing with Charlie, who’s slumped on his side, tired but happy and wagging his tail.

What the hell?

Heat turns my blood into lava.

I should have known.

You go and find an abandoned dog, then bring him in just so you can flaunt your heroics on social media. Because that’s what the world needs right now.

Apparently, all good deeds are transactional for earthworms like Brady McMoneybags.

More rich virtue signalers, measuring their morals in likes.

Oh my God.

Charlie doesn’t even know he’s a prop, of course.

The corgi looks up lovingly and licks his face. Brady laughs, and I have to admit—even though I’m pissed enough to spit nails—it’s a charming laugh.

That doesn’t mean this whole thing isn’t gross.

It gives me massive ick, just watching it unfold.

He’s not a good person. He’s not altruistic or kind or selfless.

He’s one more ginormous prick in a city crawling with them, turning a good deed into a spectacle.

No, it doesn’t matter if he’s built like Hercules with an Instagram filter.

As far as I’m concerned, he’s a first-class asshole.

I have plenty of experience to know. After you’ve dated the king of abusive predators and lived to tell the tale, you don’t forget.

He glances up at me with a small smile like a cobra watching its prey.

“Is it good news, Lena?”

I hate that he knows my name.

I inhale a long, slow breath.

Paying customers.

Paying.

Smile, bat your eyes, and shut it.

There’s no way I can unload on him now, especially if I want to get them out of here ASAP.

“I managed to get in touch with the owner, yes,” I say coldly. “She’ll come tomorrow morning, but she can’t take him until then because they’re out of town.”

“Damn. They left town without their dog, huh?” Brady’s smile drops.

“Their niece was looking after him, I think. It’s a whole thing.” I wave a hand, because the owners’ situation hardly matters when I just caught him making a big stinking hero spectacle right in front of me.

Calm, calm.

It’s not easy when Blondie sighs. “What’s the problem now? Why are we still here?”

“Nancy, enough.” Brady shoots her an annoyed glance.

“What? She found the person, didn’t she?”

“The problem is we don’t have enough kennel space,” I clip, cutting them off before they get into it. I like my toxic relationships to stay on Netflix, thank you very much. “We recently had to downsize, and there just isn’t room for Charlie there. There’s one spare kennel in the observation room. But it’s not the most comfortable place for a dog who isn’t sick.”

Brady scratches the dog’s head idly as he thinks. I watch the movement, knowing I shouldn’t.

His hands are so nice. Neat, but not too sculpted.

He probably climbs with them or something, but there’s a rhythmic quality to his movements. It looks poised and elegant even if it’s just the way he rubs behind Charlie’s ear.

The corgi closes his eyes and leans his head back with a satisfied grumble.

I can relate.

It’s been years since anyone touched me like that.

“Why don’t I take him?” Brady says suddenly.

I look up, annoyed that I do a double take.

“I can look after him for the night and meet you back here tomorrow to hand him off,” he explains.

Blondie—Nancy—makes a noise that can only be disgust.

She’s a charmer, all right. I can totally see why he likes her.

“I have the perfect place for Charlie boy. Here.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls until he stops on a picture of what must be his house.

It’s enormous, of course, and right on Lake Washington. That picture-perfect blue water is a dead giveaway.

There’s even what looks like a mini sculpture park by the water.

Obviously.

What person doesn’t need their own private art walk?

“Plenty of grass,” he continues.

Like I need more convincing.

It’s almost worse than I imagined. The entire property looks like it’s within spitting distance of the billionaire estates perched in the hills. I bet he waves to household names and tech CEOs while their landscapers mow the lawns.

Maybe they get together and talk about tax loopholes and exotic stock options.

Hell, maybe they have cocaine binges on the weekends.

Whatever it is people do when they’re loaded and they don’t have to get up at five every morning just to make rent.

Another reason to loathe his entitled ass.

Then again, this is the answer I was looking for, even if I hate it. Also, he seems sane, if spoiled rotten, and Charlie likes him.

The stay would save us the headache of finding another kennel to board the dog this late or cooping him up in the sick room.

Whatever.

“Sure. That would save us a lot of trouble, assuming you don’t mind,” I say.

“Not at all. I’m a dog guy,” he announces proudly.

“But it’s clinic protocol to follow up, just to make sure Charlie gets reunited with his owner,” I warn.

He smiles. “I’ll be here bright and early. Just name the time. When do you want me to meet you?”

Oh goodie. An invite to deal with him again.

If he can sense the laser beams of frustration blasting from my eyes, he doesn’t show it.

“Brady, c’mon. Let’s go!” Blondie whines, taking his arm and tugging.

Yes, please leave.

“Awesome. Now we’ll have to cancel the reservation for sure,” she says as he scoops Charlie back into his arms. The dog, exhausted but at ease, just wags his tail a few times and settles in for the ride. “Now you’ll have to take that smelly dog. What will your dad say?”

“He won’t know tonight,” Brady says calmly, giving me a nod as he strides out to the parking lot.

The car waiting for them is a sleek, newish upscale SUV. No surprise.

And obviously an older man in a suit—the driver, I assume—steps out and opens the door for them.

Honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t send the driver to do all their dirty work. Or maybe he’s not authorized to use the prince’s credit card.

No, I doubt that.

Someone like him has at least six credit cards, most with no limit, and he’s not going to get fussy about who uses them for company expenses.

And when you’re rich, everything is a company expense.

Yes, I’m glaring as they leave.

Jealous much? I am.

Like I said, this job is bittersweet.

The animals are awesome about a hundred percent of the time. It’s the people who suck way more often.

But at least we did our duty.

We helped solve one more case of lost paws tonight.

I wish it made me happier.

As I watch the SUV pull away, shaking my head at the way Brady waves through the window, I wonder how long Pawsome Hearts can keep the rescues going.

How long do we have left?

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