“Avery, this is Dan,” Joe said. “He and his wife, Millie, built this place five years ago.”

“How many dogs do you keep here?” I asked.

“We average about a hundred. We try to take the ones that other places have trouble adopting out.”

“We’ll go to the back and set up,” Joe said. “Bring out the first one whenever you’re ready, Dan.”

“You bet.”

Joe led me to an exercise area in the back of the building. The room was spacious, the rubber floor designed like a black-and-white checkerboard. One wall was lined with a low-slung red vinyl sofa. There was a basket of dog toys and a plastic children’s playhouse with a ramp.

After taking a Nikon from a camera bag, Joe attached a lens and adjusted the exposure and scene modes. All of it was accomplished with the quickness and ease of someone who’d done it a million times before. “First I take a couple of minutes to get to know the dog a little,” he said. “Some of them are nervous, especially if they’ve been neglected or abused. The important thing to remember is not to approach a dog directly and step into his space. He’ll see that as a threat. You’re the pack leader – the follower is supposed to come to you. No eye contact at first, just stay calm and ignore him until he gets used to you.”

The door opened, and Dan led in a large black dog with raggedy ears. “This here’s Ivy,” he said. “A Lab-retriever mix. Blinded in one eye after she got caught into a bobwire fence. No one can get a good picture because of the coloring.”

“Solid black is tricky for lighting,” Joe said. “Do you think she can handle it if I bounce a flash from the ceiling?”

“Sure, Ivy was a gun dog. A flash won’t bother her a bit.”

Setting aside the camera, Joe waited as Ivy came to sniff his hand. He petted her and scratched her neck. Her one good eye closed in ecstasy, and she panted happily. “Who’s a good girl?” Joe asked, lowering to his haunches, rubbing her chest and neck.

Ivy padded over to the basket of toys, pulled out a stuffed gator, and brought it to Joe. He tossed the toy into the air, and Ivy caught it deftly. She brought the toy back, her tail wagging enthusiastically, and the process was repeated a few more times. Eventually Ivy dropped the toy and wandered toward me, sniffing curiously.

“She wants to meet you,” Joe said.

“What should I do?”

“Stand still and let her smell your hand. Then you can rub under her chin.”

Ivy sniffed a fold of my skirt, and then her cold nose touched against my hand. “Hello, Ivy,” I murmured, stroking her beneath the chin and on her chest. The dog’s jaw relaxed and she sat promptly, her tail thumping the floor. Her one good eye closed as I continued to pet her.

At Joe’s direction, I held a reflector board while he took some shots of Ivy. She turned out to be a willing photography subject, lounging on the red sofa with a toy between her paws.

Three more dogs were brought out in turn, a beagle mix, a Yorkshire terrier, and a short-haired Chihuahua that Dan said would be the most difficult to adopt out. She was beige and white, with an adorable face with big, soft eyes, but she had two things going against her: She was ten years old, and toothless.

“Her owner had to go into assisted living,” Dan explained, carrying the tiny creature into the room. “Dog’s teeth went bad and every last one had to be pulled.”

“Can she survive with no teeth?” I asked.

“As long as she gets soft food.” Carefully, Dan set the Chihuahua on the floor. “Here you go, Coco.”

The dog looked so fragile that I felt a pang of concern. “How long do they usually live?”

“This one might could last five years, maybe more. We’ve got a friend whose Chi lived to be eighteen.”

Coco surveyed the three of us uncertainly. Her tail wagged once, twice, in a hopeful gesture that caused a sharp twinge in my heart. To my surprise, she came to me in a fit of bravery, miniature feet pattering on the floor. I leaned down to pick her up. She weighed nothing; it was like holding a bird. I could feel her heart beating against my fingers. As she strained to lick my chin, I could see hairline cracks at the tip of her tongue.

“Why is her tongue so dry?” I asked.

“She can’t hold it in because of the missing teeth.” Dan left the room, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll let y’all get to work.”

I carried the Chihuahua to the sofa and placed her on it carefully. Her ears drooped and her tail tucked between her legs. Staring up at me, she began to pant in distress.

“Everything’s okay,” I encouraged, backing away. “Stay still.”

But Coco looked increasingly worried, creeping to the edge of the sofa as if preparing to jump and follow me. I returned and sat on the sofa. As I petted her, she crawled into my lap and tried to curl up. “What a love sponge,” I said, laughing. “How do I make her sit by herself?”

“I have no idea,” Joe said.

“I thought you knew how to handle dogs.”

“Honey, there’s no way I could convince her that a cold vinyl seat is better than your lap. If you’ll keep holding her, I’ll zoom the shots and make the depth of field as shallow as possible.”

“So the background will be blurry?”

“Yes. See if you can get her to relax. With her ears flattened like that, she looks scared.”

“What do you want her ears to do?”