My parents flew every relative to my brother’s wedding except me. Dad looked me in the eye and said, “You’re not worth a plane ticket. Stay and watch the dogs.” Then he locked every bathroom in the house. I washed with dog shampoo and stayed silent. At Christmas, Mom asked me to house-sit again. My four-word answer made Dad drop his fork.

On a freezing Friday night in early February, my phone rang with a call from an unknown landline.

I hesitated, then swiped to accept. "Hello?"

"Claire?"

The voice was shaky, breathless, and broken. It wasn't Dad or Ryan. It was an elderly woman's voice—Mrs. Gable, my parents' next-door neighbor for twenty-five years.

"Mrs. Gable? What's wrong?"

"Oh, thank heaven you answered," the old woman wept. "Claire, your parents left for their cruise yesterday morning. They left Baxter and Daisy in the garage with an automatic feeder. They said Ryan was coming by every evening to walk them."

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit of ice. "Did Ryan show up?"

"No," Mrs. Gable choked out. "The feeder jammed. I heard Daisy barking frantically around three this afternoon. I went over with my spare key... Claire, the garage heater shorted out. The temperature inside is below freezing. Baxter can't get up. He’s lying on the concrete, shivering. He can’t move his back legs."

The world went dead silent around me.

"I called Ryan," Mrs. Gable sobbed. "He said he was at a bar in downtown Columbus and couldn't drive because he’d been drinking. He told me to call animal control. I didn't know what else to do. I called you."

"I'm on my way," I said. "Keep them covered. I'll be there in twelve minutes."

I didn't grab a coat. I grabbed a wool blanket from my bed, threw on my winter boots, and ran to my car.

I drove through the slush of Columbus streets with my emergency lights flashing, running two red lights on the deserted suburban boulevard. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.

*Not Baxter. Not the dogs.*

When I pulled into my parents' driveway, the house was dark, shuttered, and silent.

I ran through the side gate into the freezing garage.

The air inside was like an iron box. A faint, pungent smell of urine hung in the freezing air. Daisy was pacing frantically near the interior door, her ribs visible beneath her golden coat, whining with high, ragged squeaks.

In the corner, curled upon a single threadbare mat on the bare concrete floor, lay Baxter.

His eyes were half-open, milky and glazed with pain. His breathing was shallow, little clouds of white vapor puffing from his grey muzzle into the freezing air. His back legs were rigid, locked by advanced arthritis aggravated by the brutal cold.

"Baxter," I whispered, falling to my knees on the cold concrete.

His tail didn't wag. But his nose twitched faintly. He let out a low, shuddering sigh against my knee.

Mrs. Gable stood in the doorway, clutching an old housecoat around herself, tears freezing on her wrinkled cheeks. "I brought some warm towels, Claire. He's so cold."

"Help me lift him," I said, my voice dead and deadly calm. "We're going to the 24-hour veterinary hospital on Olentangy."

Together, we wrapped Baxter in the heavy wool blanket. He was eighty pounds of dead weight, groaning in agony as his inflamed joints moved. I didn't care about the mud, the cold, or the urine soaked into the fur of his hindquarters.

I hoisted him into my arms, my back screaming under the strain, and carried him to the backseat of my car.

Daisy jumped in after him without being told, curling her body tightly around his shivering torso.

I turned to Mrs. Gable. "Thank you. Go back inside where it's warm."

"What are you going to do about your father?" she asked, her voice trembling.