“Your dog is harassin’ innocent civilians again,” Jules calls from across the lobby.
I glance up just in time to see Mr. Pickles proudly trotting past the silent auction tables carrying a pink feather boa in his mouth.
“Oh, my word,” I laugh.
A little girl bursts into giggles nearby while Mr. Pickles prances faster like he’s really proud of himself.
Jules shakes his head. “I told you not to let him near decorations.”
“He climbed outta the exercise pen,” I argue.
“He scaled it like a convicted felon escaping prison.”
“There’s a difference,” I insist.
“Not to normal people.”
I snort while wrestling the feather boa away from Mr. Pickles before he swallows sequins and costs me another emergency vet visit.
Before I can breathe for longer than three seconds, one of the teenage volunteers rushes toward me, looking panicked.
“Maggie, we’re almost outta bottled water by the side kennels.”
“I bought six cases this morning.”
“Well apparently Savannah got dehydrated all at once,” she says.
I drag a hand down my face. “Lord, give me strength.”
“Pretty sure He already did,” Mama says behind me.
I spin around instantly.
“Mama.”
She smiles warmly while balancing a cardboard drink tray filled with iced coffees. Her diner uniform peeks out beneath a light cardigan, and exhaustion shadows her eyes from too many shifts and not enough sleep, but she still showed up anyway.
“You didn’t have to bring all this.”
“And let y’all survive entirely on gas station coffee?” She looks horrified. “Absolutely not.”
Jules appears beside us and immediately steals one from the tray. “Miss Teresa, I love you.”
“I know.”
I laugh while taking my own coffee. “You headed to work later?”
“In a little while.” Her eyes move slowly around the crowded shelter, pride warming her expression. “Looks like the whole city came out.”
Families crouch beside kennels, petting rescue dogs while children press excitedly against the glass outside the cat rooms, trying to choose favorites. Volunteers carry stacks of paperwork through the lobby, and local businesses hand out raffle tickets near the entrance. Every few minutes, someone walks out smiling beside a newly adopted dog or cat.
For once, the shelter doesn’t feel like it’s drowning. It feels hopeful.
“It’s a real good turnout,” I admit.
“You built this, baby.”
Emotion wells up at the admiration in her voice.
