Julia nodded again and stood quietly in the warm sunlight.
“So,” Howell said after a moment. “How was your trip here?”
“Oh, great,” Julia said. “Very relaxing, in fact.”
“Any trouble spotting that sign down the hill? Guess it’s kind of hard to notice sometimes. With all the branches I’m always forgetting to trim—”
“No, no, I saw it just fine.” She nodded over toward the house. “Those are beautiful dogs back there… are they up for placement?”
“Actually, they’re our personal brood. Rachel, Monica, Phoebe, Ross, and Joey. Don’t ask how we got stuck with them—”
“What about Chandler?” Julia said. “I assume they’re named after characters from that TV show Friends… ”
“Right, that’s it.”
“And Chandler being the sixth, well, friend…”
“Cynthia and I try to leave an open slot. Just in case another dog turns out to be irresistible,” Howell said with another smile. “You have, what, two ex-racers of your own?”
“Jack and Jill,” Julia said. “Which means a third pooch would have to be named Hill or Pail of Water. If I use your general naming formula.”
“There’s a lesson in that for prospective adopters, I suppose,” he said. “Stick to nursery rhymes with lots of characters—”
“And sitcoms with large ensemble casts.”
Both were grinning now.
“Follow me,” Howell said and nodded toward the center. “We should talk about the job.”
The area just inside the building’s doorway turned out to be a combination waiting area and supply-and-gift shop. There were folding chairs to one side of the room that Julia guessed were for visitors, a counter and cash register, and walls lined with all manner of greyhound-related merchandise: books on the breed’s history and care; porcelain statues and life-size posters of greys; ashtrays, coffee mugs, pens, beach towels, cooking aprons, sweatshirts, T-shirts, jackets, and even socks featuring their likenesses. There were also leashes, collars, and coats as well as plenty of general dog health and grooming items.
Howell had noticed Julia looking around the place.
“Every cent we make here at our In the Money store… that’s a little play on words, since racing greyhounds get retired, really discarded, by their kennel owners and trainers after they’ve finished out of the money once too often… goes toward the upkeep of our facility and maintenance and veterinary expenses for the dogs,” he said. “We do lots of mail order and are just getting into online sales.”
Julia faced him, impressed. “That’s quite an operation,” she said.
Howell stood at one end of the counter, an elbow resting on its edge.
“Right now, it’s tough,” he said. “Cyn’s got the baby on her hands, and I’m a night auditor over at a hotel out near San Gregario Beach. But we try our best to juggle everything.”
“There are no other volunteers?”
Howell shook his head.
“We used to have a couple of regulars, super folks,” he said. “A college student who came in two, three afternoons a week. And a woman who’d help us out Saturdays. But the kid transferred to an out-of-state school, and the woman’s a single mom who’s had to take on a paying weekend job to make ends meet.” Howell shrugged. “When she couldn’t cut the schedule anymore, I decided to put up fliers in pet stores.”
“Like the one I saw,” Julia said. “How’s the response been?”
He wobbled a hand in the air.
“I’d categorize it as lukewarm. There’ve been a few candidates, besides you. They were all well intentioned, bless ’em. But being a dog lover or even somebody who’s put in hours at an ordinary animal shelter, isn’t necessarily enough of a qualification. People who haven’t had experience with greys don’t expect the kind of work that’s involved after we rescue them from the track. The dogs are sick, malnourished, and covered with open sores from being cooped up in wooden boxes whenever they’re not racing. They’ve spent their lives in what amounts to a state of sensory deprivation, and it’s easy to lose patience with a seventy- or eighty-pound, five-year-old adult that’s basically a puppy in terms of behavioral development. They aren’t housebroken. They need to be taught how to walk up and down stairs. They’ve never seen windows before and think they can jump right through glass. They’re traumatized, afraid of everything. And with good reason. Maybe sixty percent of them have caught regular beatings from their handlers. I’ve got to figure, though it’s not as if anybody’s going to fess up to it. The dogs come in with gashes, bruises, torn ears, even broken teeth and ribs.”
Julia nodded.
“Jill couldn’t do stairs for six months,” she said. “And Jack must’ve been very badly abused. He’d wake up from a dead sleep and spring onto all fours, screaming, his eyes bulging. The sound of those screams, God, it was so horrible. So human. The first time, I was sure he was in excruciating pain, having some kind of physical seizure. I think it was the middle of the night. My husband… well, my ex… phoned the veterinary clinic’s emergency number, but before we could reach anybody, Jack settled down. From then on, I’d try to soothe him whenever it happened, talk to him the way you’d talk to a person who’s had an awful nightmare. That worked okay after a while. But he still has occasional episodes.”
Howell gave her an assaying look from where he stood against the counter.
“Guess I don’t need to worry about your experience,” he said.
She smiled. “Guess not.”
Howell was silent a moment.
“You want to know the hardest thing about running this show?” he said at length. “For me and Cyn, anyway?”
She nodded again.
“It’s letting go of the dogs once we’ve gotten them healthy,” he said. “We find that handling more than fifteen or twenty stretches us thin, though we’ve boarded as many as thirty at a time. Every grey we save arrives with a whole set of problems and needs lots of attention. Some are here months, even years, before we find a suitable home, and they can grow on you. One-on-one. But you have to be able to keep a certain distance, almost a doctor-patient relationship, and that takes a strong kind of person. You invest too much of yourself in a particular animal, you’re going to have your heart broken more than a little when it’s placed.”
Julia looked at him.
“Or wind up living with the whole cast of Friends,” she said, thinking she’d managed to survive her disastrous seven-year investment in a marriage that had been liquidated when Craig decided to take a sudden hike on her — talk about having to let go and learn to cope with heartbreak.
The room was quiet. Howell leaned against the counter, a thoughtful expression on his face. Julia heard the distinctive throaty woofing of a grey somewhere out back of the building, followed by that of a second dog. Then the overlapping, explosive barks of what sounded like at least three or four more of them.
“Rolling thunder,” Howell said. “They’ve been stuck in their kennels all day, and are letting me know they want to be let out to do their business.” He pushed himself off the counter. “You have time to help with that right now?”
Julia smiled.
“Sure,” she said. “Whatever dirty job you ask of me.”
Howell motioned toward the door.
“C’mon,” he said. “We’ll work out your schedule while we walk.”