Chapter 1 – "Rescue Me"
A/N:
- This is the beginning of a story that has been banging around since long before I read the Twilight saga. I've wanted to write my own fanfic for some time, and while driving home late one night it finally dawned on me that the main characters could easily translate (with some adjustments) to the Twi-canon characters.
- I'm going to try to name each chapter after an applicable song; this one is named after Aretha Franklin's "Rescue Me"
- Yeah, yeah, pet welfare is a hot button issue for me, but I'll tone the soapboxing down in future chapters. It was core to this setting though.
Disclaimer: I own a great little coffee maker and several mugs the size of soup bowls, but I do not own anything Twilight related, it is all S. Meyer's ... the non-Twilight aspects of the story are mine however.
... Soar ... Soar ... Soar ... Soar ... Soar ... Soar ...
It had been a long day at the shelter for Randall. He had come in early to help process the victims of a hoarder, most of which had to be euthanized because of their poor condition and a lack of funding to rehabilitate them. He had smelled out a dog fighter trying to find a "family pet"—a near daily occurrence—and turned him away. And he did intakes on two dogs and three cats from people giving them up for obviously fabricated reasons, when the pets had just committed the sin of no longer being a novelty ... oh god, maybe it had been three dogs and four cats. Randall wanted nothing more than to go home to his boyfriend, have a good pissed off rant and a big glass of wine.
Standing at the desk in the near-empty reception area for the last part of the day Randall looked up at the clock over the glass main entrance doors yet again and paused mid-glance; a sleek blue Aston Martin Vanquish was turning into the front lot. "Huh ... must be slummin' it," he thought.
After parking the driver emerged and walked shakily to the doors. Fumbling while putting keys into her Birkin bag, wrapping her Hermes scarf over her head like an old peasant woman would, pushing her black Jackie-O style shades up her nose, shrugging further into her Burberry trench, and stumbling in her Blahnik booties, the driver was a study in stereotypical self-conscious consumerism—and a bit overdressed for even early February. As she reached for the door Randall saw the sparkle come off a watch on her too-skinny over-bronzed wrist that could pay off his student loans. "Definitely slumming."
Reminding himself that even filthy rich people can have a conscience and not care to buy their Fifis thru a puppy-mill masked as an upscale pet store, Randall pushed his attitude aside and said "Welcome to the East Los Angeles Animal Shelter, how can I help you today?" then gasped lightly in mild surprise as he looked closer at the girl's face.
She was probably pretty, young too—barely into her twenties, skin that spoke of long hours being spa pampered, a body that lived off pilates and diet pills from the fit of her skinny jeans, and a face that was someone's recent punching bag. No attempt had been made to cover the swelling and bruises with make-up, her only camouflage being the shades, head wrap and cringing stance.
She swallowed but didn't reply, "Miss? Can I help you?" Randall tried again.
Straightening up a bit she spoke in a near whisper, "Ye- ... Yes, I want ... no, um, I need to find ... a friend."
"Did you lose a pet in this area, miss?"
"No, I need a dog," she finally said after swallowing again, "a friend. It's been far too long without one."
Randall hadn't cried all day, as much as he wanted to at times he always kept it in. He hadn't cried when in-taking the hoarder's victims that morning, or earlier that afternoon when a malnourished and cowering dog was handed over by a belligerent man claiming to have found a stray, and he certainly wasn't going to cry over the young woman who seemed to have everything, but really had nothing. Randall took in a deep breath, relaxed and said "Well then, we should probably have you fill out an adoption application."
He grabbed an application from the pile, stuck it in a clip board, handed it to the girl and nodded to the seats back by the front window. Realizing he forgot to give her a pen he took one off the counter and started toward her as she pulled a Mont Blanc from the Birkin and sat down. "Quelle surprise. What next, a gold-plated tampon case?" Randall was as big a fan of Vogue Italia as the next gal, but too much was just too much. Still curious, he glanced up again as she took out a big-screen cell phone and place a call. "Hi Jay, ... yes, izza ... no, have quick questions ... may sound odd but ... that one? No, ok, what about ... ok ... yours is good then? ... recommend a ... no, not crazy ... under your hat ... thanks ... I might ... how much available for ...? Ah, good ... will call back if ... 'K. Thanks again Jay."
Randall busied himself so he wouldn't seem to be eavesdropping, that and doing so was pointless as he could barely hear half of what she had been saying. With as much work as there was to do he was quickly absorbed back into it and jumped a bit when a soft voice said "Um, hi, I'm, um done."
He looked up at the girl, even towering over him on four inch heels she was still a slip of a thing, and watched her full mouth work itself back in forth in painful split-lip hesitation. "I um, was hoping that, um, you are ... um, able to be ... discreet. I, um, just spoke to my lawyer and he said, um, since I'm moving out of my rental in Brentwood to one of three houses we're considering at in Malibu that I should give his contact info in lieu of mine ..."
Randall's eyes bugged out at the content of her sudden torrent of nervous verbiage, and more so when she went on to say "I don't know who else to give as a reference except maybe, my agent," her face made a quick moue of distaste at that. "I'd give you contacts from back home but I can't risk someone selling that info to like a ... reporter. Sorry, gotta be careful, last time it ... ugh, never mind," and she shook her head. "Um, I don't have a vet yet, but my lawyer said he'd ask his wife who they use. They dote on their cats and have spoken highly of their vet so I'm sure he's good. Oh, and the dog and I would stay at a pet friendly hotel for the upcoming move so there'd be no disruption." Randall noted she thought through post-adoption already. "So um, I do want to keep this quiet, I'd really rather not give you my agent's info though as she'll just call my manager, who doesn't want me to have distractions," Here she grimaced then winced briefly at the pain. "So um, again, yeah, here is what I can give you, oh ... and my lawyer's card, please do call him."
Randall's eyes almost fell out of his head as he took back the clipboard and read the business card; Jason Jenks was one of the most respected lawyers in LA. Known for honesty thought to be rare in his profession and the bulldog-like guardianship he gave his celebrity clients. Then he looked at the application, on the first line was written in small neat letters; "Swan, Isabella." Suddenly the muttered "izza" and the unfashionable round little nose in the frame of jet black bangs were familiar. Isa Swan.
Now was Randall's turn to stutter—Isa Swan was huge, like Taylor Swift but a bit older and without the Country crossover. "Uh ... just a moment, I, uh, am going to double check with my manager. I'm, uh, yeah, uh, sure this shouldn't be a ... problem ... just a moment. Sit. Uh ... Please." He ended with a nervous smile of his own to soften the fact that he had just given her a dog command.
Randall hightailed it through a glass door behind the reception desk into the main office then sat down in front of a computer and said to the shelter director as he did a web search "Mary, I know I'm not an adoption supervisor, but I'm about to do something totally without authorization and make only one phone call to validate an application. Ok? Ok. I knew you'd be agreeable." At Mary's confused look and attempt to interrupt, Randall went on "You'll understand, just shh, shh and listen, ok?" Mary chuckled at the hands he fluttered at her and sat back with attentive curiosity. Randall was one of the best people she had working with her, organized, timely, compassionate without being over-emotional, calmly able to diffuse the angriest ex-pet-owner—his instincts were always spot on. If Randall said "trust me", he was to be trusted.
As he waited for his call to be answered Randall checked the business card in his hand against the computer screen. "Hello, I know this is unusual, but my name is Randall, I'm a representative of East Los Angeles Animal Shelter and I've been told by Isa Swan to speak with Jason Jenks regarding, uh, a certain matter. ... Oh. Yes, I'll hold. Thank you." Mary's jaw dropped, and then she sat up to look out the window into the reception area. Seeing only a slim woman with a scarf over her head she wondered if someone was trying to pull a fast one on their shelter. Then she looked at the screen of Randall's computer, saw the richly conservative website for Jason Jenks' office and heard Randall say "Hello sir, I'm ... Oh, yes, you were expecting a call ... yes, I see ... yes, that does seem wise. ... A surprise to you sir? ... Not really? I see. ... Of course, I understand, I will help her chose myself. ... Huh? How does she seem? ... Um, ok. Quiet. ... Of course! ... Yes sir, thank you sir!"
Randall hung up the phone and sat back to let his head stop reeling. He looked at Mary and in humorously official tone declared, "I have a feeling a generous donation will come out of giving this applicant every courtesy." Even municipal shelters relied on donations.
Mary nodded solemnly and then finally spoke "So, what's up with the scarf and trench? I thought the young and famous these days were all about showing off?"
"Oh Mary honey, celeb she may be, but someone beat the shit out of her face, hence scarf," Randall made a wrapping motion around his head. "She said she was here to find a friend." Randall and Mary just nodded to one another in understanding; the pets their respective partners agreed to having come home from work with them gave as much comfort as they received.
"Go. Help the girl. Don't bring her into the visiting area bring her right into the kennel. She can sing to big crowds she can stand a few ... dozen ... dogs barking at her!" Mary laughed and waved him away. The pay sucked, the clientele often left a lot to be desired, there were sad tales more often than happy endings, but Randall and Mary loved their jobs with good reason.
"Miss Swan? Not sure if I introduced myself before, I'm Randall. Would you like to visit some of the dogs in the kennel itself? We can take ones you may be interested in to the back lot instead of the visitor area where other adopters might join us ... if that would be acceptable?"
The girl stood up, shook his proffered hand, smiled again—Randall was coming to quickly like her shy smile—nodded and said "Please, lead the way."
"So, Miss Swan ..."
"Isa. Please."
"Ok, Isa, what type of dog are you looking for?"
"Um, I don't know for sure, I'll know the one when I saw him—or her, but my Dad ru- ran a rescue kennel for ... um, dogs. I'm most familiar with ... um, larger breeds as that's what we had at home." She was obviously unwilling to disclose too much about herself even off paper, so Randall didn't press.
"This side is where the bigger dogs are housed, over there are the smaller dogs, will you want to look at those too?" Randall looked back at where he thought the girl was and saw her walking down one of the hallways between kennels where he had first gestured, hand outstretched just enough to be open but not threatening. He watched as she paused and spoke softly to some of the dogs, and put her flattened hand to the chain-link doors to be nuzzled and licked. Rather than follow her—even though he was curious to see what she looked like after she had pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and her scarf off her hair—he stood back. Then it dawned on him that the dogs weren't baying their heads off as much as they do when a new person comes in.
She wandered further, and then through a half-shut door at the back where she saw more kennels. At that point Randall came running, "Miss Swan! Isa. I'm sorry, but these are dogs that are to be euthanized very soon for uh, various reasons. They are simply not available."
One dog was snarling and slamming himself against the gate trying to get at the intruders. Looking calmly at the snarling dog Isa responded, "I see why for some, but why him?" turning back and gesturing to the dog in front of her.
"That's a wolf Miss Swan. Full or high content we're not sure of, but a wolf. Strangely he was being used as a bait dog, do you know what those are?" Isa nodded her eyes yet to leave the dog. "He was found with duct tape wrapped around his muzzle and has bite wounds on his other side and up his neck," the dog got up and turned as if he had been asked to show his wounds. "Between his species, history and his injuries, euthanizing him is the only responsible choice."
"Has he been aggressive?" she asked.
"No, quite docile actually, for once aggression wasn't part of the decision."
Isa nodded again as if she expected that answer. She and the dog had been regarding one another since she walked into the back room, but he hadn't come to the door to greet her like other dogs had. He knew his fate. "This dog is no more wolf than I am."
Randall sputtered.
Isa raised a brow then truly straightened up and looked him dead on for the first time since meeting. With the sunglasses off and scarf's shadow gone, Randall saw the full extent of what happened to her face, before he could say anything she continued, "He's a German Shepherd, a sable—sometimes called agouti to be exact—not the more common black and tan saddle. Plush coat, not standard or long, it will be gorgeous when he's cleaned up and well again. Malnourishment is no doubt giving him the rangy look that makes one think wolf, but from his build and head shape he's most likely imported, and definitely high-quality working lines. Oh yeah, and his feet are too small and ears too large to be a wolf's. I'll bet my stylist's implants he's got a tattoo somewhere designating the breeder he came from."
Randall paused; shocked for a moment that such a strong unwavering voice was coming from this beaten girl.
"Really?"
"Yup," she replied with a popped "p." "Really."
When Randall still looked hesitant Isa reinforced her observation with "Listen, where I grew up high-content wolf-dogs weren't all that rare. I know what those look like. This is a Shepherd, not a wolf."
The girl started unhooking the gate to the kennel, Randall tried to reach in to stop her but was halted by the return of that raised brow. "Let's bring him to an exam table, I'd ask for a leash, but he can't wear a collar or harness now. One can only assume that the tattoos are on an inner thigh," Randall looked confused. "He still has his ears." That particular thought made Randall queasy, lopped ears were gruesome. He stood back as she opened the door the rest of the way, and then heard the girl say "Fuss" to the dog. He recalled her lawyer having said "She knows dogs well," and decided to trust her instinct. Looking again at Isa's face he couldn't help but think "Does she ever."
"Which way?" the girl asked, Randall pointed to another door as he stepped ahead and opened it to a hallway. The dog walked calmly—in heel—by the girl's side all the way to the clinic area of the shelter and stopped when she did. Randall asked for some help to get the dog onto a table and watched as the girl finally reached out the dog. The large dog sniffed her hand and let her scratch under his chin while her other hand went for the soft fur near his ears. As the dog sighed in contentment and closed his eyes Randall realized that the dog's attention hadn't left the girl's face from the time she opened the kennel door and let him out.
The vet techs had lain the dog down on his un-wounded side. "Look for a tattoo on his inner thighs, the lady here says he's a German Shepherd, not a wolf, and may have a breeder tatt," Randall told the curious techs. One held the back end of the dog and the other gently lifted the wounded dog's leg and searched around, fingers running thru the dog's lighter undercoat. "Wow ... here," the tech pointed, "Shit Randall, ya think he was stolen or sumthin?" Randall looked mildly surprised and took a look too ... yeah, there it was, "Uh ... Most likely."
The tattoo was hard to make out, not truly identifiable as anything other than small dots in curves and lines making alpha-numeric digits, but only every other one was guessable. There was no way to trace that. How he got trapped into a dog fighting ring would remain unknown unless a suspect squealed, and since the court had released the dog from evidence to be euthanized that possibility was highly unlikely.
"So, does he have to be neutered here or can it wait until he has healed more and let our new vet do it?" Isa asked as she looked through the fur to the skin around the dog's neck, shoulders then down his exposed side.
"Uh miss, just because he's not a wolf doesn't mean we can adopt him out, he was a bait dog ..."
"Briefly," she interrupted. "I'm feeling no other scars, want to look?" The tech that hadn't spoken looked through his fur for a couple moments as well and bobbed his head in agreement. "Lift him back down please," and dog was placed back on his feet. Again Isa told him "Fuss," and he came to stand by her, then "Platz," and he lay down.
Mary had quietly entered the room earlier table and now made her presence known with a throat clearing, "I think that can be arranged," her tone said she had the authority to make that call.
The girl smiled softly at Mary, "Thank you," she said then crouched down to the dog that had been peering up at her. The dog licked at her bruised wrist as she pet his massive head again. "It'll be ok now, for both of us," the dog's tail brushed the floor in quiet joy at the words spoken low enough for his ears only.
Isa stood up again and addressed Mary "What are your shelter's biggest needs right now?"
Mary quirked an eyebrow in recognition of the girl's implied offer, then sighed as her eyes gazed over the outdated clinic before responding. "Well, we really need new equipment, the x-ray machine is tetchy, and supplies are ..." her words dwindled and Mary groaned in frustration.
"Got it." Isa reached into her bag to pull out her cell phone again, "Jay, Isa again. ... Yeah, I did. ... Yes, already. ... Do us a favor? Have a cashier's check for seventy five K couriered now to this shelter. Yes, that much. ..." Her eyes met Mary's wide ones, "I'll pay for the actual adoption separately in cash now while we wait. Got the location already? Good. We'll be waiting for its arrival before we leave—I think a good faith act is in order, considering. Will fill you in on that later. ... Yeah, I know. ... And could your wife call that vet and let them know we'll be arriving shortly? Tell her thanks and we'll have to get together soon. ... Oh yeah, medical attention would be good now, not quite an emergency but a necessity. ... E-mail me his address for my GPS? Fantastic. ... Thank you kindly Jay, you are very much appreciated!" She chuckled, mumbling something about pissing someone off, as she ended the call.
Isa looked back around at a very stunned small group of people, and stopped at Randall. "Thank you for helping me find my friend."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The next afternoon Randall and Mary received an e-mail from beakerbirdygirl(at)gmail(dot)com with the subject line "At home."
They printed the inner contents only of the e-mail to hang on the wall of their office. There was a big picture of a large well-bandaged dog lying on a plum velvet couch, his head in a slim woman's lap. The message read: "Hi Randall & Mary – thought you'd like to know that our boy was vaccinated and given another antiseptic bath yesterday. He will be going back in a few days for a re-check and neuter if ready. His wounds had been cleaned well in your clinic so infection was minimal, but he is on antibiotics and a pain reliever. He seems so happy now, am afraid he's being spoiled, but he listens so perfectly it's hard not to! Thank you all so much for your kind care and considerate help – Ulric's Mom."
... Soar ... Soar ... Soar ... Soar ... Soar ... Soar ...
Isa's outfit and a pic of what Ulric looks like are here on Polyvore: www(dot)polyvore(dot)com/soar_ch_rescue_me/set?id=21144573
Chapter end notes:
- Yes, the e-mail address is valid, it's not checked often though.
- No, there is not a shelter named "the East LA Animal Shelter", I looked up shelters in the LA area so I wouldn't accidentally write of one that does actually exist.
- It does happened that sable and/or long coat German Shepherds are mistaken for wolves or wolf-hybrids even at shelters with dog-saavy volunteers. And there is a big distinction in builds between working and show (or pet) line Sheps, as well as between American and European bred.
- "Fuss" and "Platz" are common commands widely used by people that breed and train German Shepherds and similar breeds. Respectively the commands mean "Heel" (short for "stay by my side and come with me") and "Lay Down."
- Tattoos on dogs are rarely lines, they are generally dots spelling out each letter or number.
- I wrote Randall and Mary's characters in reflection of some wonderful people I volunteer with ... and man do I wish a donor that generous would come by our rescue kennel! It has happened to other shelters though, just not as often as any of them need.
- And yes, adoption groups love updates.