Beaglemania Read Online Free PDF Page B

arms.
    I took a quick peek at a Web site of the unofficial network of pet rescue administrators that I belong to, Southern California Rescuers. On a discussion group linked to it, we all share news of upcoming events, animals that need quick rescue—especially if we can’t get there fast enough or haven’t the room to bring them in—and other information that we thought our counterparts might find interesting.
    I wasn’t enamored of the methods used by some of the other shelters in the network to care for or rehome their wards, but I kept my opinions to myself, in the interest of sharing useful information. So far, none who’d joined seemed to be abusing any of their residents, or my stance could change.
    Nothing of interest there. No one had mentioned the puppy mill rescue, nor should they. No private shelter was officially involved.
    I clicked back to my computer desktop and pushed away, observing the stack of files I needed to review. They sat on the right side of my antique-style wooden desk. I’d found the ornate, L-shaped desk used around the time I’d helped Dante to open HotRescues. He’d been willing to buy me a new one or a real antique. But I hadn’t thought either necessary. I had engaged my multitalented, strong hands to refinish this one and liked it a lot. It was large, with ringlike, drooping drawer handles that looked like aged pewter.
    The desk occupied one side of my fairly large office—which had been designed and mostly furnished by Dante, not me, as the administrator’s hangout. The other side was basically a conversation area that I used for private meetings. It contained a really attractive sofa with brown, leathery upholstery, beige pillows, and curved wood legs. A little pretentious, but I liked it. I appreciated even more the wooden bookshelf that also had a role as a file cabinet. And I especially liked the window view of part of the shelter area, although right now the shades were drawn.
    The files on my desk were labeled with names of our most recent adoptees. HotRescues was savvy enough to keep computerized track of all residents, but being medium tech instead of high, I also kept paper files for information not scanned or typed directly onto the computer. We maintained as many details as we could on each animal, including everything placed on the data sheet posted near their enclosures and more. The files I stored in my office were devoted to our residents waiting for someone to take them home—paperwork I kept readily available to make copies for potential adopters.
    Right now, I had to go through folders on animals we’d placed recently. I’d soon organize their files in a storage room, but I always liked to chuck out unnecessary papers first. We always maintained some things, though, like special notes from volunteers who took pets for walks or played with them. And data about their spaying or neutering, since no animal left here unfixed, if they weren’t already, unless they were too young—and in those cases, we insisted that they be brought back so we could make sure it was done. That way, they’d never have offspring who could become similarly homeless.
    We also kept data on who turned noses up at a meal, or expressed rage by attacking another dog, or had any other behavior or health issue. And . . . well, I actually didn’t recycle much.
    I hadn’t a lot of time to sort through files now anyway. A pet owner was supposed to come in to talk to us about relinquishing her dog. Maybe. It was the same woman who’d called a few days ago. She hadn’t kept an appointment yet.
    Which might be a good sign. Perhaps she wouldn’t abandon her dog here after all.
    I glanced at the clock—a modern digital gadget that didn’t go with my desk’s antique look. It was nine thirty A.M. The woman had said she would show up at ten o’clock. I decided to take the opportunity to walk through the shelter area again.
    “Be back in a few,” I told Nina as I passed through the entry. She