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That’s why I volunteer instead. My motivation is driven by the simple joy of making a positive difference in the lives of these loyal companions who have no one else but people like me and the others to alleviate the struggles they face which brought them here.
She licks my cheek in response, and I chuckle, getting up as she continues to follow me around her quarters as I organize her bedding, water, and food bowls.
“Asher,” I hear my name and turn around and find another volunteer, Ryan, holding up a file and clipping it onto the cage door. “Poppy’s officially adopted. A family came by yesterday afternoon; they even paid the fee and were approved. They’re coming by later today to collect this pretty lady.”
My heart swells with joy. Poppy’s already seven years old, and it’s harder for older dogs to get adopted. I drop to the floor and allow her to sit on my lap as I give her neck a good rub.
“Finally a home for you, Poppy,” I kiss her head, feeling rather proud.
But I get like that with every dog who gets adopted. Maybe I associate it with my own life. Having spent the first seven years of my life on a council estate until my chemically dependent mum fatally overdosed, and I landed my foster parents, who eventually officially adopted me three years later and supported my love for music.
They paid for my bongo classes that eventually evolved into drums. Well, electronic drums, because they wouldn’t tolerate real live ones in my bedroom of their three-bed terraced home.
“By the way, you’ve got a visitor. He said he’ll wait until you finish your shift. Said his name was Jagger.”
Ryan looks at me with a sly smile when I don’t respond. “It’s Jagger Smith, your old bandmate. I hardly recognize him from your Sonic Revolution days.”
Now and again, we’ll get recognized, especially if Jagger and I are seen together, but our image couldn’t be more different from the personas we once lived in as teenage rock stars. I live in a two-bedroom flat in Putney, and the only thing that links me to my past is my Harley and love of American bikes. Besides that, I’m like any other geezer living and breathing the same London air, trying to get by with life.
“It was a stage character we played, Ryan. Don’t get your knickers in a twist over it,” I joke, but he doesn’t get it.
I don’t blame him. Everyone fell for the character we played, and when the music stopped playing, we went our separate ways and returned to being your average Joe within the mass population.
“I’ll be finished in fifteen minutes,” I say because I’m not in the mood to elaborate on something I have no interest in starting a discussion on.
He doesn’t hear me walk into the waiting room.
As he stands with his back to the door, I assume he’s reading the pinboard with the latest shelter news. I observe his tall, athletic form. We’re both of similar height and muscle mass; he’s just as much of a workout nut as I am. But I don’t remember when he decided to start dressing like a forty-year-old millennial dad. It had to be after he returned from serving overseas.
Maybe he wants to blend in with the public rather than stand out.
Back in our heyday, we were told how to dress and act. But his outfit is no better than the one we were forced to dress up in. He’s still hiding behind another façade of someone I know is not who he really is.
“Alright, mate?” I say, causing Jagger to turn around and face me with a bright smile.
I walk up, give my best friend a bro hug, and let go fast.
The band split up years ago, but Jag and I remained tight, even during his five-year stint as a soldier for the British Army. He’s the one I see most often out of the three lads.
Occasionally, we’ll meet up with Callum, but since his falling out with his brother, Haze mostly went his own way.
The last time I saw Haze in person was over two years ago, and he couldn’t wait to depart our company.
I get it. Each of us reminds the other of the closeness we once shared with her.
“So, uh, what’s up, Jag?” I say, casting my unwanted thoughts aside fast. “You’ve never come round here before.”
I'm genuinely intrigued to find out.
He swipes his hand across his face as he stares at me, trying to form the words in his head. I give him a moment and then realize this isn’t a passing-by kind of visit. He should be up at the cafe; instead, he’s trekked all the way down to South London for a reason, one that he’s skeptical about opening the topic.
I nudge my head toward the open door.
“Fancy a cuppa?” I ask, and he nods. We’ll be undisturbed in the staff kitchen as everyone’s on duty with a task at this time of day.
I silently lead him down the corridor into the small kitchen area and fill the kettle up as Jagger takes a seat at the table.
“Did you get the latest royalty check?” he asks as I prepare the two cups.
