Futile Endeavours

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"If only I could give them what they need,

no, if only

I could convince myself these things

must die as naturally as apples

on the apple tree...

but that's in Nature, which is never

wrong, just thoughtless and without shame."

- Stephen Dunn

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Standing on the pavement outside the bus shelter, Garland blew into his hands irritably. They didn't feel much warmer, and he was fed up; he'd been searching all day, damn it, and had only ended up here at six-fifteen in the evening after Moses had a burst of inspiration on the phone. All very well for Moses, he was at home - well, Garland's home - where it was warm and there were not dozens of cars buzzing past every second. The Tzebult family's youngest wrapped his parka closer around him, and pushed his way into the Humane Society's Reception.

"We're closed for adoptions for today," the elderly man behind the counter told him apologetically. Garland shook his head, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Through the skylight, smooth white cloud cover was rapidly turning dark grey. He couldn't believe he was doing this.

"I'm not - here for that. I'm looking for a friend."

"Oh?" The man looked up, pen in one hand. Garland sighed through his teeth.

"Yes. I'm sorry, he's been missing all day - a redhead, about five foot nine, with a gold earring, have you - "

"Oh, yes." The man was suddenly beaming. "Yes, I know. He's here quite a lot. Amazing with the animals, you know. Try the indoor runs, just down the corridor there, if not then come back and I'll take you out to the catteries."

"Thank you very much," Garland managed, moving briskly in the indicated direction. There was a green door with a little square window in it. He pulled it open and was hit immediately by warmth and an overwhelming smell of dog. Wrinkling his nose, he started to walk slowly along the corridor, letting the door close behind him and looking into each wire-fronted run as he passed. Dogs of every description barked crazily, fascinated and alarmed by his appearance. Some hurled themselves at the wire, attempting to greet him with extremely varying levels of friendliness.

He was two-thirds of the way along before stopping. Inside the run, a large, dirty white dog looked up and growled at him lowly.

"Ssshh..."

It went quiet. Garland unzipped his parka in deference to the heat, and leaned against the wire run door.

"You were here all day?"

The other side of the door, Brooklyn finally turned to look up at him. He was sitting on the floor, legs curled up, in dusty jeans and a too-big black sweater with the sleeves pushed back. They were falling down. The dog was also far too big but doing its level best to sit on his lap.

"She's being put down tomorrow morning," he explained quietly. Garland's facial expression froze, and he lowered the hand which had been knotting itself in the upper wires. " - Come in?"

"Alright." He fiddled with the latch for a moment before working it out, and opened the door as little as possible to enter. Then stood uncertainly by the wall, trying to look authoratative.

"You want to sit down?"

"Not really. You've been here all day? Why didn't you tell me you were - "

"She's going to be put down. She's going to die." Garland looked. The scabbed, jowly head of a pitbull was resting comfortably on his friend's wrist. He frowned as inconspicuously as possible.

"I know, you just said."

"Sit down. Please?"

He crouched, taking a deep breath.

"We've been looking for you since this morning," he said gently, "Why didn't you tell me you were going somewhere?" Brooklyn didn't look at him, stroking the fat scruff of the dog's neck.

"Her name's Baby. I don't know why, really." Garland sighed heavily, and rocked back on his heels to sit against the wall beside his teammate. He didn't like days like this. He didn't know where he was.

"Listen to me. Hey. Look at me when I'm talking." Brooklyn stared in the opposite direction, at the floor. Garland was getting annoyed. "Hey. Hey." No response. He hated this, he really did, because he had to go out every single time, and if he didn't, it'd be the wrong one, and then there would be trouble.

"She's going to die."

Garland rubbed the wrinkles out of his brow with one hand.

"Are you - are we playing," he asked harshly. Because he had to ask, and he was getting worn out with confusion.

"She's going to die. People trained her for fighting, so she's not safe. She has to be put down."

"I see."

"Do you want to pet her?"

"Hmm." The Tzebult family home had two guard dogs, and that was it. Garland slowly raised his left hand, bringing it down so that his arm was around Brooklyn's shoulders. The redhead twitched away instantly, tense; his breathing hitched as Garland held on. The older teen waited for him to relax somewhat, which took several minutes.

"...Would you like to adopt her?"

"Yes." There was a pause. "But it wouldn't be fair. She won't understand, she just knows to fight, people taught her. So she has to be put down tomorrow." Garland looked at the white tiled wall and floor, and the dog's dirty grey-brown fleece basket.

"You were here, all day?"

"Mmhmm."

"Why?"

"Why're you here?"

The older of the two blinked. Without realising, he'd put his free hand on the dog's head, and was stroking its ears. The tiny stub of its tail flicked.

"I told the guy at Reception that I came to find a friend," he said wryly. Brooklyn leaned against his side, sniffling a bit. "You worried me. Don't run off, hmm?"

"You found me." He sniffed again. "She's going to die though. Poor Baby."

"Poor Baby," Garland agreed, eyeing the dog. "D'you want to come back tomorrow morning and see her?" He felt a nod against his shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll come too."

"Why?"

"She hasn't died yet," Garland said firmly. The floor was beginning to hurt, and Brooklyn had got a sudden death grip on his parka jacket; he was trying to laugh.

Garland smiled flatly, and stroked Baby's ears.

The dog licked his hand.

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NOTES:

feather-duster just wrote this and keeps getting the feeling it's actually bad, because she was in the perfect mood to write it several hours ago while stuck in a railway station.

The quote at the beginning is from a poem called "Father, Mother, Robert Henley who hanged himself in the ninth grade, et al." It's wonderful. Nature is never wrong...coincidentally, neither is Brooklyn.

Poor dog. Fighting pitbulls have to be put down, it's so sad.

Garland is a leeeeettle bit worried about that dog. That's because he's logical.

feather-duster should stop watching Animal Cops Detroit, really...

Erm. Not much else to say about this one. feather-duster just felt like it.

Review and Baby won't maul you. And, feather-duster will love you!