My life was simple, predictable, and, most importantly, mine.
As a vet, I spent my days surrounded by creatures that couldn't speak but somehow understood me better than most humans ever had. There was a quiet peace in the work, in the routine—something steady and constant that had eluded me for the first twenty years of my life.
Orphaned as a baby, I had bounced around foster homes, never truly belonging, always yearning for a connection I couldn't name. People had been temporary, unreliable, but animals? Animals were different. They loved without conditions, forgave without hesitation. They had become my family, along with the small team at Pine Haven Veterinary Clinic, where every day brought something new.
This morning started like any other, with a lukewarm cup of coffee and a waiting room full of impatient pet parents.
"Dr. Mia, you've got an early drop-off!" called Julie, my clinic's receptionist and the closest thing I had to a best friend. She was a whirlwind of frizzy curls and caffeine-fueled efficiency, keeping the place running even when I was dead on my feet.
I set my coffee down and walked out to the front. "What am I looking at?"
Julie gave me a look over the rim of her glasses. "Oh, you're gonna love this. Mr. Jenkins is here—with Princess."
I groaned. "Tell me she didn't eat another sock."
"Worse." She tilted her head toward the waiting area, where Mr. Jenkins, a retired marine with a heart of gold and the absolute worst luck, sat cradling his teacup poodle like she was the crown jewel of England. Princess, for her part, looked utterly unbothered.
"She got into the neighbor's trash," Mr. Jenkins announced as I approached. "Half a chicken wing, an entire chocolate chip cookie, and—" He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "—what I think might have been an old sponge?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Okay, let's get her checked out."
Princess wagged her tiny tail as I took her from him, her pink bow slightly askew. "You have no regrets, do you?" I muttered, carrying her to the exam room. She sneezed in response.
The morning continued in a blur of fur and feathers. A golden retriever with a sprained paw, a rescue kitten with an eye infection, a parrot named Captain who cursed in fluent Spanish.
By lunchtime, I was stealing bites of a granola bar between appointments when Logan, my vet tech, poked his head into the break room. "Emergency case coming in—stray shepherd, hit by a car."
I swallowed hard and stood up. "Let's get prepped."
The next hour was a whirlwind of controlled chaos. The German shepherd—young, barely more than a pup—was rushed into surgery. His back leg was broken, his ribs bruised, but he had a strong pulse. I worked quickly, blocking out everything but the rhythm of my hands, the steady beep of the monitors.
"Come on, buddy," I murmured as I set the final stitches. "You're going to be okay."
By late afternoon, the shepherd was stable, Princess was discharged with a strict no-trash policy, and Captain the parrot had insulted Logan's mother in three languages. Just another day at Pine Haven