The Christmas Puppy (Christmas on Palmar Island #10)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The morning feeding was always chaos, but today felt like it was teetering on the edge of disaster.

Gayle Walker stood in the middle of the Palmar Island Animal Shelter's main room, trying to organize the volunteer schedule on her clipboard while Biscuit—a terrier mix with more opinions than sense—howled his displeasure at breakfast being three minutes late.

His performance set off a chain reaction, and within seconds, the other eleven kennels joined in with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"I hear you, I hear you," Gayle called over the noise, her voice calm despite the mounting pressure behind her eyes. She'd been here since six a.m., and it was barely eight. "Jenny, can you start with the back row? I'll handle this side."

Jenny, a college student who volunteered twice a week, nodded and grabbed a bag of food. She was good help when she was here, but she had classes most days, and the shelter's other regular volunteer had called in sick. Again.

Gayle moved down the row of kennels with practiced efficiency, checking water bowls and food dishes, making notes about which dogs needed medications and who was due for a vet visit. The routine was familiar, grounding, but today it felt like she was just barely keeping her head above water.

She paused at the last kennel, where an older beagle named Copper watched her with soulful eyes. He'd been here for four months, overlooked again and again by families who wanted puppies or younger dogs. Gayle crouched down and scratched his ears through the wire.

"I know, sweet boy," she murmured. "I'm trying."

The front door chimed, and Gayle looked up to see Miss Doris stepping inside, a covered basket over her arm and that warm smile that seemed to light up every room she entered.

"Morning, dear," Miss Doris called over the barking. "Brought you some muffins. Blueberry."

Gayle straightened, brushing dog hair off her worn jeans. "Miss Doris, you don't have to keep feeding me."

"Someone has to," Miss Doris replied, setting the basket on the small reception desk. "You look like you've been here all night."

"Just since six," Gayle said, moving to join her at the desk. The barking was starting to settle as dogs realized breakfast was actually happening. "We had a late intake yesterday. Someone found a pregnant cat behind the grocery store. I had to set up a space in the quarantine room."

Miss Doris's expression softened with sympathy. "How are you managing?"

Gayle glanced back at the kennels, at Copper and Biscuit and all the others depending on her. "We're managing. Barely."

"I heard the Johnsons adopted that shepherd mix last week. That must have helped."

"It did. For about twelve hours." Gayle pulled a muffin from the basket, suddenly realizing she'd skipped breakfast. Again.

"Then someone dropped off two cats they found under their porch, and Dr. Winter called about a dog that had been hit by a car.

We got him stabilized and into a foster home, thank goodness, but... "

She trailed off, not wanting to complain. This was the job. This was what she'd signed up for when she took over the shelter nine years ago. But lately, it felt like the walls were closing in.

"You need help," Miss Doris said gently.

"I need more space," Gayle corrected. "And more funding. And about thirty more hours in each day."

Miss Doris studied her for a moment, the way she always did when she was seeing past Gayle's careful composure to the exhaustion underneath. "You can't do everything alone, dear."

"I'm not alone. I have Jenny, and Tom comes in on weekends, and?—"

"That's not what I meant." Miss Doris's voice was soft but firm. "You need more than volunteers, Gayle. You need real help. Support."

Gayle felt something prickle behind her eyes and blinked it away. She didn't have time to fall apart. "I'm fine, Miss Doris. Really. We just need to get through the next few weeks. Adoption rates always pick up in December. Families looking for Christmas puppies."

"And what happens between now and then?"

Gayle didn't have an answer for that.

Behind them, Jenny appeared from the back room, wiping her hands on a towel. "Miss Walker? The pregnant cat from yesterday... I think she's in labor."

Of course she was.

Gayle set down her half-eaten muffin. "Okay. Can you finish the feeding? I'll check on her."

"Sure thing."

Gayle headed for the quarantine room, Miss Doris following despite Gayle's unspoken wish to handle this alone. The cat—a small tabby with enormous green eyes—was in the nesting box Gayle had set up the night before, panting and clearly uncomfortable.

"Hey, sweet girl," Gayle said softly, crouching beside the box. "You're okay. You're safe here."

The cat meowed pitifully, and Gayle's chest tightened. This was why she did it. Why she worked sixty-hour weeks and worried about the budget and skipped meals and pushed everyone away. Because these animals needed someone. And if not her, then who?

"She'll be fine," Miss Doris said from the doorway. "Cats usually handle labor well."

"I know." Gayle watched the cat circle her box, preparing. "But she shouldn't have to do it in a shelter. She should be in a home. With people who chose her."

"You chose her," Miss Doris pointed out.

"That's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

Gayle didn't answer. The cat settled into the box with a soft cry, and Gayle reached in to stroke her head gently. "You're going to be a mama soon. And I'm going to find you and your babies the best homes. I promise."

It was a promise she'd made a hundred times before. And she meant it every single time, even when the odds felt impossible.

Miss Doris stayed for another hour, keeping Gayle company while the cat labored and eventually delivered four tiny, mewling kittens. By the time Miss Doris left, promising to come back later in the week to check on the new family, Gayle was running on pure adrenaline and half a muffin.

She made her rounds again—checking on the new kittens, distributing afternoon medications, letting the dogs out into the small outdoor run one at a time.

Copper got an extra-long turn because he was old and patient and deserved it.

Biscuit tried to escape twice and succeeded once, leading Gayle on a ten-minute chase around the property before she finally cornered him near the fence.

"You're lucky you're cute," she told him as she carried him back inside.

By four o'clock, Jenny had left for class, and Gayle was alone with the animals. The shelter was quieter now, just the occasional bark or meow, the rustle of bedding as dogs settled in for naps.

Gayle sank into the chair behind the reception desk and looked at the shelter's bank statement she'd been avoiding all day.

The numbers hadn't changed since this morning—still not enough.

The heating system was making that concerning noise again.

The roof leaked in two places. And they were nearly out of dog food.

She closed her eyes and let herself have one moment—just one—of feeling overwhelmed.

Then she opened them, pulled out her laptop, and started drafting the grant application she'd been putting off for weeks. Because that's what she did. She kept going. She made it work.