Because I had a few minutes leisure before I officially finished, I decided to give Pete a quick walk around the compound. He had watched me exercise all the other dogs, his gaze following my movements as I worked so that I felt guilty.
Strays weren’t allowed in the exercise yard in case they had something contagious, although anyone could see Pete was a nice, wholesome, healthy pup with nothing nasty in the way of parasites. I was in the office when he was brought in and our Vet had given him a clean and approving bill of health.
There was no sign of old Townsend around and Pete was so good when I let him out, my heart turned over. He lifted his head for me to loop a collar around his neck and scrambled along at my heels as if he had been doing it all his short life of ten weeks and didn’t need a lead to control him.
I hadn’t realized until Mr. Townsend sauntered around the corner of the yard that he was walking the big white Persian cat on its own lead. Everything sort of happened at once.
Pete pulled the lead from my slack grip and hurtled over to play with the Persian, which enlarged like a white balloon, spat, and climbed the highest thing in sight: Mr. Townsend’s bald head.
“Gee, sorry!” I gasped.
Mr. Townsend didn’t lose his cool despite the blood trickling down the side of his face. He glared at me and snapped his fingers. It was the most sinister sound I had ever heard. I started to feel physically sick and my heart pounded as if I might have a heart attack.
The white-coated vet, a very nice guy named Tim, came over, gave me an apologetic look, picked up Pete and turned to go back to the hospital section. Pete drooped and gave me a pleading stare. The pain in my heart got worse.
“You’re sacked, young Simone. If the kennel inmates have gotten infected by a stray, we’d have to close down,” old Townsend said coldly. “Pick up your wages on the way out, and don’t bother to hang around.”
“I want to buy the pup anyway,” I heard myself say. “He doesn’t belong in death row.”
Tim paused and waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ebon’s jaw drop. She knew what my parents would say when they found out, but at that moment, it wasn’t important. What was important was the trusting way Pete was watching me. I just couldn’t let him down.
“One hundred and one dollars,” Mr. Townsend said immediately. This was what the strays were sold for, so he certainly wasn’t giving me a staff discount. He lifted the hysterical Persian cat off his head and patted it until it settled down. “Deducting today’s wages will bring it down to forty. Collect the animal Monday afternoon. He’ll have his injections and be thoroughly checked over by then.”
He turned and walked away with the cat. Tim nodded, shifted Pete more comfortably into his arms and went back inside. Pete would spend the weekend in one of the small wire pens.
Ebon and I walked home together. She kept sneaking glances at me, the slightest frown on her face. The surge of love and protectiveness that had caused me to make such an impulsive offer to buy Pete had evaporated, leaving me scared. My parents fancied themselves as the reasonable, rational sort, but I had good cause to know how quickly they could both get very unreasonable and irrational.
“I thought your parents wouldn’t let you have a dog?” she asked at last.
“They won’t,” I said grimly.
I began to have real bad vibes about how to break the news about my latest acquisition to my parents.
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