Sonny thumps his tail hopefully, lifts his head and then barks. I clean up the mess and take him out, then come in, make coffee, his breakfast and call the vet.

I study my to-do list as I make my oatmeal: it’s a mile long.

Workers

Pick paint

Website

Prep for meeting with the area Chamber of local business owners

Repair the Adie Lou

I stop on that item, as the irony is just too rich this morning.

“Sonny?” I call suddenly, wondering where he went. I set down the list and jog into the living room when I see him already curled up on the rug under the Cottage Rules sign taking a nap.

“Priorities,” I say, again noticing the Cottage Rules sign hanging over Sonny.

Rule #3: Nap Often

“I wish,” I say to Sonny. “Too much to do.”

I head upstairs, Sonny on my heels, to shower and get ready—wanting to look presentable for my second day in my new world—dabbing on some essential oils to center me. I grab Sonny off the bed and head to the car. Our first stop is the vet’s office.

Everyone—including my parents, who used to bring my childhood pets here—calls Dr. Peterson “Dr. Dolittle” because she is a doctor to all animals, large and small. She can give a shot to a cat, clean a dog’s teeth and then deliver a foal or save a baby goat that’s coming out breech.

Dr. Dolittle, an older woman whose skin looks perpetually windburned, sets Sonny on a table and gives him the once-over and then a lot of shots. “He’s been through hell,” she finally says, her face filled with sadness, “but he’s going to be fine. With a lot of good care and love.” She stops. “No chip. No tags. Bad breeder probably dumped him, thinking he’d die in the cold or some lakeshore homeowner would find him.” She stops again. “Are you keeping him, or do you want us to call the shelter?”

I stare at her, and the emotion of the last day and of finding Sonny hits me full force. “I don’t know,” I say.

Dr. Dolittle lifts Sonny off the table as if he weighs nothing and then walks over, taking a seat beside me on the wooden bench in the exam room. “You have a lot on your plate,” she says, her voice soft. “No need to feel guilty whatsoever. You did a wonderful thing. You saved this dog’s life.” She stops. “You’re good stock, Adie Lou. Your parents would be proud.”

Without warning, tears run down my face. “Thank you.”

Again, without warning, Sonny jumps onto the bench and begins licking my face, clearing away my tears. And then, unaware of his burgeoning size, he plops down in my lap and, within seconds, he’s napping.

I stroke his head and then his back.