He exhaled, shaking his head. “Fine. But I’m not dealing with some yappy little thing.”

That’s how we ended up at the local shelter.

The moment we walked in, chaos greeted us—dozens of dogs barking, tails thumping, paws scratching at their cages. They all wanted attention. All but one.

In the farthest kennel, curled in the shadows, was Maggie.

She didn’t make a sound. Her frail body barely stirred as I knelt beside the bars. Her fur was patchy, her ribs visible, and her graying muzzle rested on her paws as if she had already accepted her fate.

The tag on her door made my chest tighten.

Senior Dog – 12 Years Old – Health Issues – Hospice Adoption Only.

I felt Greg stiffen beside me. “Oh, come on,” he scoffed. “We’re not taking that one.”

But I couldn’t look away. Her tired brown eyes met mine, and her tail gave the faintest wag.

“This one,” I whispered.

Greg’s voice was sharp. “You’re kidding, right? Clara, that dog is already halfway in the grave.”

“She needs us.”

“She needs a vet and a miracle,” he shot back. “Not a home.”

I turned to face him fully. “I can make her happy.”