Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
I glance at the houses across the street, a knot tightening in my gut as I grit my teeth, hoping the day goes smoothly because in this area, things can be silent one second and go south the next.
“Fucking freezing.” Georgia, one of my tried-and-true friends and steadfast volunteers, jumps up and down to warm herself up. “I couldn’t fucking sleep thinking about them out here last night. I won’t sleep again tonight. Why can’t fucking humans be humane? They should be the ones sleeping outside when it’s five below. See how they like it.”
I nod. I didn’t sleep either. We haven’t lost a dog to the freezing temps on our outreach yet, but I hold my breath when we go into every back yard, waiting for the worst.
I pull the zipper of my father’s old military parka all the way up and clap my hands, the tips of my fingers already cold. Everyone is bundled in layers, knowing it’s going to be a long, tough day, just like yesterday and the day before.
Everyone wears their reflective neon vests, with BtC OUTREACH VOLUNTEER printed on the back.
No matter how often I do this, it makes me nervous. Walking into back yards in these neighborhoods is dangerous, even when we do everything in our power to identify ourselves as friend not foe.
Mac and Tiny’s heads swivel around, scoping out the area. We met them last spring as we tried to feed a skinny pit bull in a back yard in one of the worst neighborhoods on our route.
It didn’t go as planned.
We ended up with a nine-millimeter pointed in our faces. Then like a miracle, two of the biggest guys I’ve ever seen seemingly dropped from the sky. A pair of three-hundred-pound angels that had enough street smarts to help me de-escalate the situation. And now they’re part of my team, too.
It’s bad enough these so-called pet owners treat their animals worse than the broken-down lawnmowers they leave out in the yard. But when we come to help the dogs, help that they’ve agreed we can give, some of them still give us shit. And sometimes shoot at us.
It makes me sick. If humanity will be judged by how we treat those creatures who wish nothing more than to love us, bring us joy and be loyal, we are fucked.
Hard.
In the most painful places.
I get messages and comments regularly on my social media posts about the outreach, saying we should just call the cops. Call animal control. Let the law handle things. Don’t enable neglectful owners.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to explain the cops aren’t coming. Animal control isn’t coming. That’s the reality out here. If these dogs don’t have us, they have no one.
Before I can open my mouth to give the crew instructions, a loud POP-POP-POP resounds from somewhere across the street. I barely have time to register it as a gunshots before Tiny and Mac cover me with their bodies.
The asphalt presses against my knees through my jeans. I peer out from my crouched position between them to see the rest of our group diving for cover in the bed of the pickup as my pulse races into the red.
“What the fuck?” I mutter. My hope that the day would go smoothly is dashed. But the show must go on, so I gather myself and use my best pack leader sort of voice. Fake it until you make it. “Everyone good?”
I count off the affirmatives before giving my six hundred pounds of human shield an upward shove.
“I’m okay, guys. Seriously. Just another day in Van Dyke for the adrenaline junkies of Break-the-Chains.” They pull back a few inches and I hear a few uncomfortable chuckles and mumbles from the rest of the group.
The gunshots rattled me; they always do. But I don’t let on.
“We have work to do. These dogs are cold, hungry and count on us. Let’s get this done and get out of here.”
I poke my hands between the guys’ massive bodies and press outward, spreading them like the jaws of life, then push to my feet, trying to keep my composure.
This works sucks but I won’t stop.
“One more shot and we’re leaving.” Mac looks around, scanning the houses in the direction of the gunfire.
That’s his MO—safety first.
Not me.
“Not until we do what we came to do.” I look toward the back of the pickup piled with bales of straw, then also nod toward my car. “Georgia, you and Nate grab two bowls, fill one with the dry food, the chew treats and a big heap of the warm stew. The other with just dry food. Tiny, get a bail of straw. Mac, grab the bucket of water. We all go in together.”
They all nod and start on their tasks. Even in this situation, with its inherent danger, even with the passion I have for the work, there is one thing…one person…who is never far from my thoughts.