Page 5 of Vetted for Vengeance
A person.
Freezing feels logical at first. I love the dogs, but that doesn't excuse what this place is.
I've imagined this moment more times than I should admit. Protesters pouring through the gates with cameras and banners, shouting about the cruelty they've come to stop. Someone finally caring enough to stop this place from existing. Cameras flashing. Voices raised. Doors forced open.
Someone seeing what I see every day and refusing to walk away from it.
Frank would rage for a few days. Derek would complain about lost profits. Then they'd quietly start again somewhere else.
But at least these dogs would get one chance at something better.
Grass under their feet. A sofa. A name that isn’t a number.
Someone who could give them more than ten minutes of their time.
My eyes adjust to the dark, and then I see it. A dark-shaped figure moving around, presumably from door to door, looking for a way in. I make my decision before I can talk myself out of it. If this is real; if someone’s actually here, then I’m not wasting it.
And then I slide the bolt back on the kitchen door.
I don't hang around to meet the protesters; I wouldn't be a welcome face to anyone. Probably be seen as guilty for simply working here. They wouldn't understand that dogs living in places like this need love too, probably more.
Instead, I hurry to the kennels. My steps are quick but careful. Too much noise could ruin everything. Or scare them off.
If they are going to save the dogs, then I'll help them. Honey glances up as I appear outside her door in the darkness. Her tail gives a half-hearted thump against the floor.
“Come on, Mummy.”
My voice is a low whisper, picturing Greenpeace protesters filling the corridors. Honey slowly lifts her fat body and lollops over. I'm going to make sure she is safe, but the tired girl isn't walking out of here tonight. I slip my arms under her chin and around her back legs and lift. She's a lump, but I can manage as long as she stays still and doesn't react to the noise of the protesters.
The noise, or rather the total lack of it, stops me in my tracks.
Silence.
The kind of silence that feels wrong. Too complete. Like the world has been wiped clean.
I pause in the corridor, Honey heavy in my arms, listening for the sounds I expected.
Footsteps. Whispered voices. The crash of someone forcing a kennel door.
Instead, there is nothing.
Just the soft rasp of Honey’s breathing and the faint hum of the heat lamps in the nursing block.
I'm doubting myself on whether I actually saw someone at all now. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve imagined something just to get through the night. Instead of fleeing with the dog I've dreamt of saving, I head back to the unlocked door. It's pointless taking her out of here if I’m wrong about the protectors. I want to save her, but I don't want to go to prison for theft.
The door is closed, but there is a chill in the air as if it's been opened recently. So, did someone enter, or am I so sleep-deprived that I'm seeing things now? My hand hovers just above the handle. I don’t touch it straight away.
With a disappointed sigh, I take a step forward to relock the door, concluding that I only saw what I wanted to see.
The outside world is as dead and empty as it is every night. No protesters.
“You idiot, Noah.” I should know better by now.
Honey shifts in my arms, her nails catching against my belt as I adjust my grip around her swollen belly.
Something moves in the darkness beside the door. I turn my head; slow, cautious, but there’s nothing but paranoia behind me. At first, I think it’s just the wind catching a loose sheet of metal. Then I notice the smell.
Rubber.
