03/27/2026
The Kennel in the Woods
By E. H. M.
When the world is still asleep in the early hours of the morning, you drive down a dark gravel road to work. You don’t hurry. You don’t have a handful of cards in your pocket for a PowerPoint presentation. Just keys to a 40-year-old building and boots for a day of long, hard work.
The porchlights aren’t on, but there’s nothing unsettling about the place. The sounds of the forest and the distant bawls of cattle remind you that all is well.
Your first interaction of the day isn’t your boss, and it isn’t a rushed customer late for their golf tournament. They’re the happy, early-morning faces of For Fours Legacy Acres’ office pets. The cats, Sage and Domino, not much bigger than kittens, run outside when they get the chance. Einstein and Dovie, the former owner’s dogs, are more than happy you’re there.
You didn’t work here when she was alive, but the kennel’s founder, Sue Finter, left her pets in the care of your boss (youramazing boss). Miss Sue holds legend status here, and you can’t help but respect it. Her face is on almost every wall, smiling through a frame or gracing an old page of newspaper.
“105.5 the Dove, Tampa Bay,” chimes the radio as you clean and feed the dogs. Journey, Styx, and Foreigner slowly wake you up, if the car ride didn’t already do that.
Einstein follows you to the kennel building when you grab supplies. You tread across the wavy sidewalk, lifted from its resting place by expanding oak roots. You unlock the doors and turn on the lights. The soft click of Einstein’s claws reassure you on the mornings you’re paranoid. He’s no German Shepherd, but right now he might as well be a canine bred for combat.
You haven’t spoken to a human yet.
7am comes. You flick on the lights in the kennel hall and wake up the guests. A cacophony of hungry barks echoes through the wood. Medications, instructions, messes; everything must get done at once and without mistakes. You used to panic when you first got this job. But you know now it’s a blessing. A great responsibility.
The residents in the living room, where the small dogs are kept, are the best part of the morning. Jade, the Cairn Terrier, jumps up your leg every morning, her little paws pitter-pattering with joy. She wags her tiny tail so hard her body swings side to side. Her big black eyes sparkle in the sunrise when you let her outside.
Close to 9am, you let the dogs in the kennel out to the field. One by one, through the light foggy haze, you watch them run and play. The smaller ones come back covered in dew. Some freeze, watching the resident deer family of six as they pass through. The wind softly rustles through the trees, sending leaves and pollen clumps to the ground. A cow moos far behind you. The voices of Stevie Nicks and John Mellencamp filter through the doggy-doors into the meadow, faded like childhood memories.
The cardinal with the bad leg lands in the short tree, puffed in a petite red ball. Your friend the Mockingbird perches on the fence, singing and waiting for today’s news report. This one, unfortunately, is your update on his status: no longer the Florida state bird, losing that title to the Flamingo. He flies off in a huff.
The peace is only twice interrupted by the engines of planes. An airfield is nearby, but the dogs are accustomed to it.
Sage the Siamese cat startles you as she chases a squirrel off the sloping roof. The more the world wakes up, you realize, the tenser you become. Around 10oclock the noise starts.
Constant thuds and whirrs of machinery echo through the forest. The birdsong thins. You pick up the pace. You nudge the dogs along with their business. You sweep and mop without the aid of hymns you used to sing.
Despite it all, each action grows heavier. It feels worthless.
Like decorating the grand staircase of the Titanic. Like carpeting the World Trade Center.
Around 11, you find yourself mopping the isle. With full bellies and business handled, the dogs are all sleeping. It’s just the sloshing of the mop bucket, Billy Joel, and the hum of the AC.
And the thuds of progress.
You see, where you work is not like your average dog kennel. It’s solitary. It’s peaceful. The dogs aren’t rushed to and fro, crammed in a tight atmosphere that exhausts both man and creature – they’re given the space to breathe.
Now you’re the only one who forces yourself to sigh.
You move on to the “Catery,” the upstairs portion of the office where the feline guests stay. It’s always quieter here. Some cats hate you; some love you, like the missy today. You bend down to clean her litter and she leaps onto your shoulders to give your cheek a possessive lick. Then sits there. It makes working more difficult, but you can’t get yourself to make her leave.
Each guest is special to you. You love checking them in and out. And each time you consider putting this place where you think it belongs – in the past – that’s when you remember.
Cradling an aching greyhound in your lap after her surgery.
Running around the field to catch a mischievous terrier.
Holding a dog so tiny he fit in one hand.
Jade and her best friend falling asleep on either side of you.
Patiently walking beside an old dog as she makes her way to the field.
Reminding a gorgeous, vain Husky how pretty she looked.
A Doberman rolling over for you.
Giving Einstein big, warm hugs every time you leave.
You have a mission here. As does everyone who works here.
But it won’t be for much longer.
For Fours’ days are numbered. Before Miss Sue passed, she rewrote her will. Her family had broken her trust, and she’d given the business, her home, and pets to your boss, but that will had been given to sloppy hands. The attorney didn’t file it properly. The former inheritors leapt for it.
Sue’s wish was for the business to be sold once Einstein and Dovie had passed away. Her home was given to your boss; the single mother of two children whose livelihood was the kennel. Now, Sue’s stepchildren are telling the family to leave. The developers behind them want the property, and the inheritors are ready to sell.
And the only chance you know of is if someone else is willing to buy the place, but the chances of that have been slim. The kennel is ancient. It’s far away from the road. Who would want it? Who would need it?
When you work, you feel squeezed between a rock and a hard place…but realize that you aren’t the one taking the blow. It’s the customers. Your boss. The legacy of this place.
So, you press on. You feed the dogs, sweep the halls, and mop the pens. It’s a sinking ship, but one you’ll go down with until the deck hits the water.
You leave past noon when you’ve fed them all again. Sage trots out from underneath your car, then rolls in the sidewalk at your feet. Domino, the other office cat, watches from a bush, then shakes his tail. He pounces, and they tussle. Oblivious. Unaware.
Let them be, you think, let them love this place just a little longer.
