Real Pets, Real Stories

Fez, the three-year-old Bombay cat, stretched luxuriously in the sunlight streaming through the window. Her sleek black fur shimmered like polished onyx. Today was promising to be an exciting day. Melissa, her nine-year-old best friend, had mentioned something about a surprise in the backyard. Curiosity tingled in Fez’s whiskers, and she decided it was the perfect time to investigate.

The latch snapped against the kennel gate, and Max sprang backward before he could decide whether the sound meant danger or dinner. Around him, the local animal shelter carried a hundred sharp messages at once: disinfectant on the floor, damp fur along the row of enclosures, metal bowls, old blankets, nervous barking, and the dry rattle of tags against collars. Max Francisco was a male Golden retriever and border collie mix, brown, black, and white, with a broad young face, watchful dark eyes, and legs that still seemed slightly too large when he turned too quickly. He stood with his front paws spread for balance, his ears angled toward the aisle, and his tail held low but not tucked. Every few moments, a voice rose from another kennel, and Max answered with a brief bark of his own, as if he could call the whole crowded place into order.

When you’re a Netherland Dwarf with a reputation for being the Snack Overlord, life can be pretty cushy—except when your human, Valerie, thinks she’s in charge. Spoiler alert: she’s not. Valerie might be a 30-year-old woman with opinions about high fashion and possibly minor delusions of grandeur, but we all know my kibble kingdom is the real seat of power. At two years old, I’ve already mastered the fine art of expressing displeasure with a well-timed thump and wielding charm like a carrot-flavored weapon. Let me take you through a day in the life of Juniper Miao. That’s me.