Ruff Way to Go by Leslie O'Kane Page B

I could stand guard
at her house, but then what? Follow her if she left with a dog under her arm?
Even at that, she was likely to spot me following her and could simply outwait
me. And there was no chance of enlisting immediate help from the police. Even
if I could prove that she was harboring Shogun, that wasn’t a crime. Especially not when
Trevor, Shogun’s owner, knew that Luellen had the dog and that he was safe.
    As I
pondered the matter, I realized that there was simply no way for me to control
Luellen’s actions with Shogun. I could, at least, take comfort in knowing that
the sweet little dog was safe and being well cared for. The same couldn’t
necessarily be said for Suds and her litter, however. An animal shelter was a good
temporary home for a stray—better and safer than the streets—but it
wasn’t any place to house a nursing dog and her five puppies.
    Before I
could dismiss the notion that the husky and her puppies were suffering, I had
to see her. Perhaps another foster home had been located. If not, I could think
about taking them in myself.
    The thought
of Suds and her litter brought Melanie to mind. I wondered how she, at her
young age, was handling such an immense, monstrous thing as the violent death
of her mother. I barely knew Melanie and didn’t know how to go about reaching
out to her. Maybe I could at least talk to her father about the possibility of
their adopting one of the puppies.
    The animal
shelter was in Loveland, due north of Berthoud and a short drive from Campion.
Loveland is a nice little town, several times the size of Berthoud, though that’s
not saying much. Its biggest claim to fame is that, before Valentine’s Day,
people all over the country route their cards through the city to get their “Loveland”
postmark on the envelopes.
    The shelter
was privately funded and operated out of a converted house. I pulled into the
parking lot and walked toward the single-story brick building. The warm breeze
carried the distinct odor of manure from the cattle feedlots that surrounded
this part of the county. The stuffy air within the shelter smelled even worse,
but I knew that my nostrils would soon adjust. The young woman at the counter
looked to be a teenager at most. She was clad all in black, except for the
series of silver rings on her ears and through her nose. It strikes me
as comical that we humans intentionally poke holes in our bodies to supposedly
make ourselves more attractive, yet call dogs stupid for pleasing themselves by
rolling in something of foul fragrance.
    I asked her
if I could talk to someone about a husky named Suds, and she pointed to a
half-open door next to the counter while she answered the phone. I took this to
mean that I could go on in, and did so. There, to my pleasant surprise, sat a
man holding one of Suds’s puppies in his lap.
    He grinned
at me. He was thin and tan with a distinctive, high-bridged nose and a
particularly appealing smile. His eyes were darker than his light brown hair,
some errant locks covering the slight hint of wrinkles on his forehead. His
good looks were augmented by the fact that he was cradling a puppy. A
dog-loving man is infinitely more attractive to me than, well, someone like
Russell, though he had other qualities that made him attractive.
    “Can I help
you, miss?” he asked. I couldn’t help but notice that he gave me an appraising
look, eyeing me at length as he spoke.
    “Yes. Hi. My
name is Allida Babcock. I wanted to ask you about Suds and her puppies.”
    “Ah. Great.”
Still seated, he held out the puppy to me. “This is one of her puppies I’ve got
now. Would you like to hold him?”
    I did, of
course. Soon I was sitting in a desk chair and cradling a warm fuzzy body in my
arms. I nuzzled his soft fur, and the puppy licked my cheek. His sweet,
milk-scented breath was warm and pleasant on my skin.
    What was a
bit worrisome to me was that Suds had allowed the dog to be taken out of her
sight. Mother dogs are