On the workbench sat a stack of notebooks tied with twine.
I picked up the top one and opened it:
There was a shelf in the corner holding collars.
“Rosie ate half her supper. Hand-fed the rest.
Benny likes the blue blanket better than the red one.
Today, I sat up with Louie past midnight. Didn’t want him by himself.
Tucker had a good morning. Porch sun for 20 minutes.
I stayed with Duke until he settled.”
I pressed my thumb against the paper and couldn’t bring myself to flip the page right away.
“Didn’t want him by himself.”
Twenty-six years of this. Dogs nobody picked. My father did it alone, while I showed up twice a year with good intentions.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Dad?” I asked.
He shrugged once. “Wasn’t for telling.”
“You built all this by yourself?”
Dad looked around the room as if I’d asked who painted the sky. “Took time, son… that’s all.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Dad?”
Behind me, the older officer asked carefully, “Sir, have you been working with shelters directly?”
“A few,” Dad replied. “I take the dogs people pass over. The old ones… with cloudy eyes, stiff hips, and medicine schedules nobody wants to learn.”
The officer pressed his lips together and looked down, wiping his eyes.
“And the money?” Grayson called from the doorway, sounding smaller now.
Dad turned just enough for his voice to carry. “The shelters ask for a fee sometimes. I pay it.”
“And the money?”
Nobody spoke after that. Silence did to that crowd what noise never could.
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