The Mountaintop School for Dogs and Other Second Chances Read Free Page B

His thin body was speckled and spotted: a little white, a little tan, a little black, lots of brown.
    Was I supposed to look on the bright side and be glad he only peed on my hand? He’d probably hoped for more. He was probably too stupid to aim.
    Mrs. Auberchon must have let him out, but she was nowhere to be seen. The inn was silent. There was only the sound of the Jeep in the distance, driving up, away, sending out its little explosions.
    I ran upstairs to wash and found a sheet of paper on the top step. It had someone’s careful writing on it, blue, in old-fashioned penmanship. The sheet was standard printer paper, but the writing was so neat it looked like it was done on lined notebook paper.
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Shadow. Male. Hound Mix. Age between five and six. Vaccines administered. Heartworm treated. Coat near normal following extensive care. Forty-two pounds, needs to gain. Neutered after arrival, following treatment for severely infected ring of neck skin due to choke collar. Yard dog, rural area, chained to stake, without shelter. Very likely had zero indoor experience. Exhibits qualities of intelligence, concentration, resilience. May be trained for search-and-rescue. Skittish at present, slow to trust. Not yet fully housebroken. Was taken secretly from former situation and transported directly here. Does not vocalize through barking. Almost completely mute.
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    When I finished reading it, I realized the paper in my hand was shaking. I opened the top drawer of my bunk—mine again, for here I still was—and dropped it in. The drawer smelled like a pinecone. I’d brought up my bag and pack, lugging them with one hand, the one that wasn’t wet and stinking. I went into the pack to get out my own soap. The inn soap was Irish Spring, which I refused to use. I didn’t want to smell like a guy. I’d almost forgotten to bring my own all that lifetime ago of two days, when I was packing for the Sanctuary. That was something I could say I did right.
    I didn’t look into the mirror above the bathroom sink as I washed. I didn’t want to know what my face was like, now that I knew what I knew about that dog.
    Then breaking through to me, floating up from downstairs, was the smell of something that made me forget about everything else, including the fact that, a few months earlier, I became a vegetarian, which I’d meant to stick with for the rest of my life.
    I smelled bacon.

Five
    M RS. AUBERCHON WAS in the kitchen, getting ready to make oatmeal for the guest. She’d sent a message to the Sanctuary asking for information, but so far nothing had come. Maybe they’d predicted among themselves the new girl wouldn’t last, which Mrs. Auberchon had told herself one minute after meeting her.
    She wouldn’t last a week. She might even be gone by tomorrow. She’d almost been gone today!
    Mrs. Auberchon’s back was to the doorway. The sound of a “hi” made her turn around. She’d forgotten to close the door.
    â€œYou’re off-limits, miss,” she announced. “This is a private area.”
    But the girl did not apologize and back away like they always did. She leveled her gaze and stayed put. She had a spine to her. If Mrs. Auberchon didn’t know how old she was, she’d have taken her, at first glance, for a teenage runaway. They hadn’t had one of those for a while: lost souls with that sad way of children pretending to be grown-ups, making their way to the Sanctuary because of some ad they’d sugared in their fantasies to be the answer to a longing, a dream, a prayer. And here they’d be again within days or even hours of starting their training programs. They’d come down off the mountain smelling like dog breath and wet fur, complaining that the work was too hard, the illusion too shattered, like Dorothys who never found Oz and didn’t have a Kansas to go back to. They’d disappear when Mrs. Auberchon said no to