The Mountaintop School for Dogs and Other Second Chances by Ellen Cooney Page B

later she was in. As usual, she started with a sweep of her three locations.
    On the screen appeared the large outer room near Solitary. The holding room, it was called. It was the first stop for a newly arriving dog, but for now it was an isolation unit for six juvenile huskies. They needed to be apart from the others as a preface to training for work. They didn’t need her. They’d be leaving soon. All were asleep, sprawled and well fed.
    Next, she looked at the infirmary. No one was there. Then she keyed into Solitary.
    The little room was once a storeroom for the old ski resort. It was large enough for even the biggest dogs to walk around. A pair of ventilation windows were set high up, to be unreachable. The heat vent in the floor was heavily grated. Dogs who were jailed in winter tended to stay close to it, hunkering like lost, worried hikers in the wilderness, terrified that flames of a campfire might go out.
    A dog was there. Mrs. Auberchon saw black, solidness, muscularity. She saw a white chest, a black face with a white muzzle. But she knew by the pacing who it was: Hank, partly black Lab, partly pit bull. This was his first time in Solitary.
    She brought up a second screen to remind herself of his bio. Age about five. Adoption possibility zero.
Do not introduce in his presence until further notice any hand-held natural wood object such as fire kindling, including sticks of any length.
    Back and forth he went, back and forth, his feet going in the same steps every time. When he reached the door, he raised a paw and struck at it, sideways, like a punch thrown out from an arm that was crossed at a chest. When the door didn’t open as he seemed to expect it to, he turned around and started over.
    He’d been sentenced for an hour, and longer if he didn’t calm down, she learned, reading the most recent entry. He was there because a new volunteer failed to put away the broom being used in an area Hank had entered.
    â€œBite sustained on hand which was holding the broom. Injury far from serious, but volunteer will not be returning,” Mrs. Auberchon read in the report. “The broomstick was also attacked. Wood splinters were removed from his teeth.”
    Mrs. Auberchon took a sip of her tea. When she first started with this, it was an experiment she’d agreed to try. She was the only Warden the Sanctuary ever had. In the early days they used long-range walkie-talkies, which were trouble, because sooner or later there’d be static to hurt the dogs’ ears, as if the noise were part of a punishment. But then came computers, cameras, speakers, mikes, magic.
    She said, “Hello there, Hank.”
    He paused, but only for a second. He didn’t look up at the shelf her voice was coming from. Sometimes they did. It was always easier when they did, especially when they knew her. But she and Hank had never met.
    â€œHank,” she said, “I’m here to tell you, you’re not alone. I’m sorry I’m late, but it couldn’t be helped.”
    Hank took a swipe at the door, and Mrs. Auberchon said, “Cut it out. That door’s not doing anything but staying closed, at least for now. It’s time to be quiet. I want you to sit. Sit, Hank.”
    He took two steps and stopped abruptly when she repeated the command in a much firmer way. He dropped to the floor to lie down. Close enough.
    â€œGood,” said Mrs. Auberchon. “Good dog. Good strong dog.”
    He was panting hard with anxiety. She often sang with the radio while doing chores, as long as no one else was around, but she’d never worked up the nerve to sing to a dog. She didn’t know if anyone might be listening in, which meant the fear that someone—a human—could make fun of her for having no pitch, or no sense of melody, or whatever people said of people who were awful at singing. But she had a pile of books, stacked like a tower beside the tower of her desktop. Some