Page 66 of Vetted for Vengeance
Honey is struggling. I know it the second I step into her kennel. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious. Not the kind of thing anyone watching the show would notice.
But I do.
Her breathing is too fast. Her eyes don’t settle. And every time one pup squirms too hard, she flinches.
We've already taken the weakest puppies away from her, but ten puppies is still too many. Even eight would be pushing it. Six strong puppies would have been the goal before. Not twelve runts. But I'm not running a farm for profit. Here I have the luxury of raising everyone as if their lives matter.
I crouch beside her, running my hand over her head, feeling the tension beneath her skin.
“Hey, girl… you’re doing so well.”
Her tail thumps weakly against the bedding, but she doesn’t relax. Around her, the puppies wriggle and fight, tiny squeaks filling the kennel as they compete for space.
Too many mouths.
Not enough milk. Not enough rest.
I reach in automatically, lifting one of the larger pups away to give the others a chance.
Old habit. Old survival.
“Still trying to do it all yourself?” Rhys’s voice comes from behind me, calm, measured.
I don’t turn. “I’m just helping.”
“You’re redistributing chaos,” he corrects.
I swallow because he’s not wrong.
I’ve been here before. Different place with worse conditions and fewer resources.
But the same feeling.
That if I don’t fix it, no one will.
“She can’t handle ten,” I breathe. “We need to strip her litter down to six. Six healthy pups sell better than twelve runts.” My fingers run through her soft fur as I stroke her head. “And if she can't raise those six…”
No. I've saved her from that fate. She has a future without the obligation to produce puppies over her head.
“We need to reduce the litter. Supplement the ones she keeps. But we can’t keep them all here… not with Bobo, not with Figgy’s litter, not with everything else.”
“And you are one person,” he cuts in.
I hate that. Not because it’s wrong. Because it’s true.
I shift another pup, trying to get the smallest remaining one onto a free teat, holding him in place with my fingers. He latches weakly. My chest tightens.
“I can make it work,” I insist.
Rhys crouches beside me. Not touching. Just there. Watching.
“You already are,” he says. “That’s the problem.”
I finally look at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re stretching yourself thin trying to keep all of them alive exactly as they are.” His gaze flicks to the litter. “Instead of making the decision that gives them the best chance.”
