Page 13 of Doggy Style

Preston

Ipark my truck, grab the bags of food, and exit. Yessi has already opened her own door and is walking Gidget.

I lead them to an outdoor patch of grass, where Gidget squats and pees.

Yessi pets her and coos. “Good girl, Gidget.” Looking at me, she adds, “Her owner said she was potty-trained, but it’ll take her a while to understand your routine. I’d take her out a couple more times tonight and again first thing in the morning.”

“Sounds like a plan. Come on. I’ll show you my place.”

We enter the elevator, and once the door opens to my floor, Yessi’s jaw drops when she sees the view of the ocean.

“You actually live here? Why are you opening a puppy store? You clearly don’t need the money.”

“It’s an investment.” She rolls her eyes. “Let me give you the tour.”

I show her the kitchen, the balcony, which is enclosed by glass, and my favorite room—my bedroom.

“Well, Gidget hit the lottery. You should adopt her. She won’t take up much room. I can’t believe you don’t already have your own dog. Why don’t you have any dogs yourself?”

Good question. “My ex had a beagle, and we were going to get another dog, but we broke up. I’m going to take one of the English bulldog puppies in my store since they’re the mascots for the Marines. I definitely needed to get a dog. It would be good for my brand.”

Her jaw gapes. “Your brand? A dog is not a brand—it’s a living, breathing being. Do you know where your beautiful bullies come from? Their moms spend their lives in cages, stewing in their own feces, and then they’re sold at auction when they can no longer breed. Puppies born with any deformities are drowned.”

I wince and try to push the images of dogs suffering out of my mind. Yessi is so passionate and convincing that I’m actually beginning to doubt my business model. But I’ve already found the best breeders. There’s no way they treat their dogs like that.

Or do they?

Time to change the subject.

“So, am I approved?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She looks at her watch. “I need to get going and feed my own dogs.”

“Let’s eat first.”

“Fine.”

I set the table, pop open a beer for myself, and offer her a glass of wine.

“No, thanks. I’ll just have the Thai iced tea I ordered. They were nice enough to make it with coconut milk for me.”

Idly I wonder if she doesn’t drink, or if she just doesn’t want to drink with me. Probably the latter.

We sit at my little bistro table after I set out the food. I should hate this girl, who clearly is disgusted by my very existence, but something about her fascinates me. Most of the girls I meet these days only care about themselves. Yessi has devoted her life to caring for the voiceless. She’s different but in a good way.

I follow her gaze to the ocean. Though she’s clearly impressed by my place, she doesn’t appear to be materialistic whatsoever. I can tell that her jeans aren’t designer and she’s not wearing any expensive jewelry. Guess there’s not a lot of money in dog rescuing, but something tells me she’s okay with that.

“Does the rescue pay you for saving dogs? Like a salary?”

She laughs. “That’s hilarious. No. Not at all. It’s all volunteer. I don’t even get reimbursed for my gas, and I spend any extra money I make helping to cover medical costs. Honestly, we don’t get many donations.”

I wince. I’m going to be profiting off selling dogs, and she goes into debt to save them.

After a long lull of uncomfortable silence, she finally speaks up.

“The food was great. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”