The door in front of you is worn at the edges but nonetheless sturdy, painted a shade off white. Where there should be a nameplate there are only two empty screwholes, half clogged with paint. You knock, and regret it when the room fills with muffled howls and barks, soon joined by a long-defeated voice before the door is wrenched open by a short, wild-haired woman. She peeres up at you through thick-rimmed glasses, though her scowl is as soft as the sun-spotted Suna Hundo that rushes past her to meet you. It grabs your sleeve, dragging you into the warm, woodsy kennels to meet its pack.