“Stop right there,” Joy interrupts, and for a terrifying second, I think I’ve overstepped. “This is perfect. I have at least five customers who were recently complaining about not finding good pet care for the holidays. Can you email me your information? I’ll forward it to everyone I think might be interested.”
Relief floods through me with just the possibility that this might work. For the first time in months, someone is offering help without making me feel like a failure for needing it.
“You’re a Christmas angel. Literally. If I believed in miracles, I’d put you on a Hallmark ornament.”
“No problem. Consider it done. Local businesses help each other around here. That’s how it should work.” She pauses, and I hearher greeting a customer. “Send me that email today, okay? As soon as I get it, I’ll blast it out to every customer in my database.”
After we hang up, I throw myself into writing the email—professional but warm, detailed but not desperate. I highlight the mountain setting, my experience in a vet office, and the personalized care each pet will get. By the time I hit send, the sun’s dipping behind the trees, and cautious hope edges out panic.
It isn’t long before my phone starts ringing.
The first call is straightforward—a couple going to visit family in Portland, needing someone to watch their elderly golden retriever, Max, and administer his medications twice a day. Easy money, and they seem relieved to find someone with veterinary training.
The second call is more complicated. A woman with a pregnant cat. Still manageable.
By the third call, I’m getting into territory I’ve only read about in textbooks. A man with a rescued parrot who’s extremely intelligent and gets destructive when bored. A couple with goats who have separation anxiety. Someone with a therapy pig who needs constant companionship.
Each caller sounds more desperate than the last, and I say yes to situations I’m not sure I can handle. The reason isn’t that I’m overconfident. It’s that the money they’re offering is exactly what I need to pay for school and allow me to keep living in this cabin. And also because I recognize the relief in their voiceswhen they realize I won’t hang up the moment they mention their “unusual” pets.
I know what it’s like to be desperate for someone to say yes.
But by the time I finish the last call, my hand is cramping from taking notes, and my head is spinning with the complexity of what I’ve just committed to. In addition to a cat who’s about to give birth, I’ll be sitting a rooster with three hens, two mischievous goats, a pot-bellied pig, a six-foot boa constrictor, and a Yellow-headed Amazon parrot who apparently provides running commentary on everything, and several more cats and dogs including the elderly golden retriever.
And they’re all arriving tomorrow morning.
I sink into my rocking chair, notebook of care instructions clutched to my chest, still reeling from what just happened. In the space of one evening, I’ve gone from financial disaster to potential salvation.
All I have to do is successfully care for a barnyard’s worth of animals, some of which I’ve never actually handled, for two weeks over Christmas.
The smart thing would be to call some of them back, explain that I might have over-committed, and scale back to something manageable.
But the desperate, terrified part of me that’s been carrying the weight of impossible choices can’t risk losing this chance. This is my shot at keeping the cabin, finishing school, and proving Ican handle whatever life throws at me without asking anyone for help.
I’ve been taking care of myself since I was eighteen. How hard can a few extra animals be? Besides, I love animals, all animals, that’s why I’m taking pre-vet courses. This will be great training. Despite my mental pep talk, my enthusiasm is flagging.
My phone buzzes with a text from Joy:How did the email blast go? Getting any bites?
I stare at my notebook full of animal care instructions, feeling the weight of what I’ve just committed to.
More than I expected,I text back.Looks like I’m going to be busy. Thanks again!
That’s wonderful! I knew this would work out. Let me know if you need anything at all.
I set my phone aside and look around the cabin that suddenly feels less like a sanctuary and more like the headquarters of an operation I’m not entirely qualified to run. Tomorrow, this quiet space is going to be filled with the sounds and smells and chaos of animals who need me to know what I’m doing.
I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, trying to channel my grandmother’s practical confidence. She always said I was stronger than I thought, and more capable than I gave myself credit for.
Tomorrow, I’m going to find out if she was right.
The alternative—failure, financial ruin, losing the only stable thing in my life—isn’t something I can let myself think about.
I’ll figure it out. I always do.
How hard can it be? I tug Grandma’s crocheted throw over my knees and breathe in the faint, comforting hint of clove from last year’s forgotten potpourri.
“Okay, Christmas,” I whisper to the empty room, “bring me a miracle.”
Chapter Two
