My chest tightens. These puppies are going to die tomorrow morning because no one will step up. Because it's inconvenient. Because it's not their problem.
Just like everyone stepped back when my dad left.
I put a call through to Hudson.
“Mr. Novak? You need a ride somewhere?”
“Yeah. I'm texting you an address. Some kind of animal shelter in Queens. We need to get there before they close.”
“Right away, sir.”
I screenshot the post and forward it to Hudson, then grab my jacket. Twenty minutes later, we're pulling up to a run-down building that looks more like a warehouse than an animal shelter.
The place is depressing as hell, but the woman who meets us at the door lights up when I explain why I'm here.
“You want all six?” she asks, like she can't believe it.
“All six.”
The paperwork takes forever. Background checks, adoption fees, vaccination records. The puppies are sleepy and docile in their crate, probably sedated for the ride home. They look even smaller in person and more fragile.
“They're brothers and sisters,” the woman explains. “Born to a stray we found a few weeks ago. Mama didn't make it, but these little ones are healthy. They'll need shots, proper food, and training.”
I'm nodding along, but I'm not really processing the details. All I can focus on is the fact that they're safe now. No one is going to kill them in the morning.
It's not until Hudson helps me carry the crate into my apartment that reality hits.
The second we open the crate door, chaos erupts.
Six puppies pour out like furry missiles, immediately scattering in different directions. They're terrified, disoriented, and apparently have been holding their bladders for way too long.
“Shit,” I breathe, watching one squat and piss all over my Persian rug. Another one is already chewing on my Italian leather shoes. A third is whimpering behind my couch like the world is ending.
“Will you be needing anything else, Mr. Novak?” Hudson asks diplomatically, clearly trying not to laugh at the disaster unfolding in my living room.
“No, I got it. Thanks.”
Except I definitely don't have it.
The moment Hudson leaves, the reality of what I've done crashes over me. I have six terrified, hungry puppies in my apartment, and I know absolutely nothing about dogs. I don't have food, toys, beds, or any fucking clue what I'm supposed to do with them.
One of them, a tiny thing with a white patch on her chest, comes up to me and starts crying. Actually crying. Heartbreaking little whimpers that make my chest ache. I pick her up carefully. She's so tiny, I'm afraid I'll break her.
“Hey, it's okay,” I murmur, but she just cries harder. “You're safe now. I promise.”
Meanwhile, her brothers are systematically destroying my apartment. One has found my coffee table and is chewing on the leg.
Another is trying to eat something that definitely isn't food. They're stumbling around on unsteady legs and bumping into furniture.
I set the female puppy down and try to corral the others, but it's like trying to catch water with my hands. Every time I grab one, two others escape and find new ways to cause mayhem.
They are probably hungry, except I don't even know what puppies eat. Or how often. Or if they need special food. What if one of them gets sick? What if I'm doing everything wrong?
What if I just condemned six innocent animals to die because of my stupidity instead of the shelter's?
The panic starts in my chest and spreads outward. My hands are shaking as I watch them explore their new prison, completely dependent on someone who has no idea how to keep them alive.
I need help.
