The volunteers are all ex-cons named Rod or Bob- staccato names like blows to the head. They don’t take instruction well; they clean kennels like they’re doing penance, all rolled sleeves and spirituals. In the morning when it’s hot and they’re supposed to exercise the big dogs- the shepherds and the black-tongued Chows- they sit outside and smoke instead. Them dogs was tired, they say, I tried once with the tug-rope and all they wanted was to lay down.

The black pug has a heart condition and is popular with families. They all want a private room with him, the wives wet-eyed, the sons up on their toes hopping and tugging at themselves like their bladders are about to give. The door cracks after three minutes, maybe five, and the father pokes his head out. Sir? Why does this dog pant so? Heart condition, I say. I see, says the father. After that he wants to know about our rabbits. Are they the fancy kind or the other kind?

At lunchtime, Pops sits on the front desk and watches me eat. Customers ask, how old is that cat? I don’t know, a million? He sounds like he’s choking when he eats, like he’s choking when he sleeps. People want to know where he came from. I say, someone left him somewhere or he ran away from someone, and the listener nods and smiles like I’m a great man doing great works, like I save small things and think about them, like I lie awake and feel good. You don’t euthanize here? Not the animals, I say.

Jill finds a Boston Terrier puppy out by the shed. It’s hurt. Nobody saw nothing. Show me, I say, and there is the dog, trembling, barely the size of a fist. There’s a puncture wound to its eye, a bad one; looking at it makes me tired inside. Take the dog to County, I say. They’ll kill him at County, says Jill, like I’ve handed her a bib and told her to eat the fucking dog. I scoop the terrier under one arm and he lets out a breath and swoons against my side. Its ribs press out like hooked fingers beneath his coat. Its heart beats fast. Forget it, I say, I’ll take it myself.

Two minutes to five. Guy comes in with a cat. Tortoise shell, nothing special. Guy wants to tell me the story of this cat’s life, and then that his new girlfriend is allergic. All right, I say. I take the cat and the guy watches me. I see the twitch in him, nearly imperceptible but endless; he reaches into his coat and takes out sunglasses. He puts them on and looks away. He only eats Sheba, he says, and I don’t mean to laugh but then I do and hard. That’s a good joke I say, like I’m the supreme expert on good jokes, like I’d even know one if I heard it.

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