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“Placid as they come,” the boy says. “Already house-trained and knows basic commands.”

She’s perfect.

The second dog he shows me is a little smaller, a young beagle-cross with the softest brown eyes. She sits politely at the front of her kennel, tail sweeping slow across the floor. She radiates quiet contentment. When I crouch down, she leans forward just enough to let me scratch behind her ear.

By the third, I’m already struggling with who to choose. A young shepherd-collie mix, maybe ten months, lies stretched out like a sunbather, completely relaxed. He thumps his tail twice when our eyes meet, then rests his chin on his paws again, perfectly at ease. Sweet, steady, and clearly craving affection without demanding it. He’s probably going to be too energetic for me. Still, I won’t cross him off the list yet.

Diane gives me a threatening look.

She knows what I’m thinking.

“They’re all so darling,” I say, lingering at the third cage. Each one really is perfect.

We continue down the row, and then the boy stops in front of a cage, stepping slightly in front of it as if to shield me.

“You don’t want to see that one,” he says, waving a dismissive hand.

My curiosity flares. “Why not?”

He makes an awkward grimace and rubs the back of his neck. “She’s…pretty old. And not in the best shape. Her last owner really neglected her—no grooming, no vet care, barely any food. She’s kind of a mess, honestly. Sleeps like twenty hours a day.” He gives me a sympathetic look. “Trust me, you’d be better off with one of the others.”

The word hit me somewhere tender. Neglected.

I know exactly how that feels. For the last fifteen years of my marriage, that’s how Maverick made me feel most days.

I step around the boy anyway and peer into the cage.

Inside sits the most bedraggled creature I’ve ever seen. She can’t be more than five pounds. Her coat is a wild tangle of long, matted gray-and-white hair that sticks out in every direction, especially around her face. Both eyes are a cloudy garish blue, her teeth poke out at odd angles beneath a crooked underbite, and her little pink tongue hangs out just a bit, as if she’s too tired to pull it back in.

And yet her eyes are heartbreakingly soft. She doesn’t bark or jump, doesn’t even seem to register our presence. I’m not sure she can see at all. Poor little thing.

I reach through the bars and gently pet her head. At first there’s no reaction, but then her ratty little tail gives the faintest wag.

The tag on her cage reads: Fifi: Breed unknown. Approx. 18 years old. Nervous bladder.

Below it is an alarmingly long list of medications.

She’s not at all what I came here for.

“Hi, Fifi,” I say.

The boy sighs gently beside me. “She might be deaf too. Honestly, the vet’s surprised she’s lasted this long. She’s been here three months. She’ll pass before she gets adopted.”

I glance at Diane, who is already shaking her head at me. But that only makes my decision feel more certain. I can’t bear the thought of this sweet little thing spending another day—let alone dying—here alone in a cage.

“I’ll take her,” I say.

The boy blinks. “Ma’am…are you sure? She’s got a lot of health issues and⁠—”

“I’m sure.”

“Carmen, she’s like a hundred years old,” Diane starts.

“She’s the one,” I say firmly.

“Her medication alone will cost a fortune,” Diane says. She’s right. I’ve been very economical with my spending given my son, Finn, is funding my life right now, and it doesn’t feel right to spend money on anything frivolous.

But this isn’t frivolous.