"Doranna Durgin - A Feral Darkness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Durgin Doranna)

"They're all like that today," Brenna said, absently rubbing her forehead between her eyebrows as she
filled out the charge slip for the cashier, already calculating how long it would take to have the Sheltie
done; she'd finished dematting before the bath, but the dog had way too much hair for its owners to
handle, at least not without a judicious amount of trimming and thinning. Like a woman with just the right
makeup . . . no one could see where the work had been done, but people could definitely appreciate the
difference.

The Sheltie would take too long, that was the answer. And there was the Cocker in for a cut-down; she
hadn't done the dog before and wasn't encouraged by her behavior in the tub. And Roger's new
 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html




appointment still hadn't shownтАФ

"тАФferal dog pack," Mrs. Delgaria was saying.

Brenna looked up at her, unable to reconcile the words with the neatly professional woman before her.
No, don't ask. Give her the charge slip and go get the Sheltie.

She asked. "What did you say?"

"You haven't heard? I'm surprised. It's been in the news since last night." Mrs. Delgaria shifted Flowers
into a more protective hold that Brenna didn't think was coincidental. "And you live out toward the lake,
don't you? That's where they're supposed to be. If you've got animals out there, you'd better make sure
they're put up safely."

Sunny. Numbly, Brenna held out the slip. "I don't listen to the radio much," she said. "Thank you for
mentioning it."Sunny the hound . Poor dumb Redbone reject would stand there with her tongue hanging
out, happily watching the canine visitors approach and never know the mistake until they bowled her over
and chewed her into little pieces. She glanced at the clock. Two hours till her shift ended and not even
then, if this new dog was other than what Roger said it would be.

Get the Sheltie started. She grabbed the stand dryer and wheeled it over to the table, which she swiftly
adjusted to height. Then the tools, ready to hand; she snapped a #7 blade onto the clippers, pulled out
her good thinning shears from the locking toolbox where she kept her personal gear, and hunted out the
wide-toothed comb and a couple of different brushes. In moments the dog was on the table, losing the
last of his matted hair and voicing his displeasure in high-pitched complaints from behind a nylon muzzle.
He wasn't nearly as tough as he thought he was, but she was in no mood for the toothy pinches he
commonly dealt out.

Definitely one of those days. The if-I-had-my-own-shop days. She wouldn't book this many dogs at
once, not without the right kind of help.And no one allowed to book dogs against my say-so , she
thought grimly, back-brushing the generous tufts of hair between the dog's toes and scissoring them to
neat round paws.

But she never approached the thought too seriously. Years of her brother Russell's dismissive comments,
of her parents' unintentional discouragementтАФthough now only her mother was left to fill that role. "Let