New neighbors Andi and Hayden don't get off to the best start - and neither do their dogs. When the hostility between their pets, Bart and Rosie, leads to noisy barking, Andi and Hayden must solve their pet's tension or risk eviction from their apar...
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Mrs. Carrots, with her plaid skirt, freshly groomed fur, and matching bow, looks marvelous.
If only she could sit still long enough for me to capture it.
I'm kneeling with one eye shut and the other pressed against my camera's viewfinder. Through the grey rabbit's hopping (all of it scrunching her tan backdrop into a wrinkled, swirled mess), capturing anything worthwhile isn't easy. As I press the shutter button, the swift, continuous clicks tickle my ears, but I know damn well the release catches nothing but leg blurs, arm fragments, and close-ups of lopsided ears.
In momentary defeat, I lower my camera and open both eyes, but the second I do, a yellow ball zooms past my peripheral. Acting quick, I swipe Cheese, the rowdy hamster I photographed earlier. He squirms, but I hold both sides of his plastic ball, foiling any escape.
Mrs. Carrots's restlessness isn't entirely her fault.
Today, our studio is abuzz, the equivalent of a circus, an untamed zoo, a Friday night at IHOP. Hundreds of little nails scratch our floor, the restless leg orchestra battering off our shiny white walls, sliced by barks, whines, squawks, and blaring commands by pet shelter employees.
We have over fifty pets inside our studio.
Our studio space is the equivalent of a small, cafe-style restaurant.
It's crowded.
A few months ago, Diana secured agreements with pet rescue centers. We created presentations on the impact quality website photos have on adoption rates. The deals provide animal shelters with discounted photoshoots, and, in exchange, the shelters distribute our flyers. Diana is a strong presenter. Within a thirty-mile radius, ninety-eight percent of shelters agreed.
Today, the largest mega-chain shelter brought their pets—two busloads full.
And the ratio of pets to photographers is, uh...
It's not good.
Still trapped in my hands, Cheese writhes like a man with clipped wings. I stand, letting my camera sway over and thump against my t-shirt. "Two minutes!" I call, my yell funneling into the studio's clamorous symphony.
The shelter employee in charge of rabbits, Tom (if I heard his name correctly), nods. Although, since his wrinkled features screw together, and his hand tightens around a white bunny's foot, I know to hurry my ass up.
I shoot him another appreciative nod and weave through the crowd.
The journey to the other side of the studio is a beacon of chaos. After four elbows to the chest, one ear-splitting bird command, two rowdy dogs woven between my feet, and a close call with a nearly-smushed kitten, I reach the rodent pen. It's set up like box hockey, using short, hexagon-shaped walls and our grey tile as floor. I lean, dropping Cheese in the pen to complete the rodent's colorful game of bumper cars. "You lost one, Di."
