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The early summer sun had settled warm and lazy over Huntsville, the kind of day that made the grass smell sweet and the bugs hum louder than usual. The backyard was quiet except for the rustle of breeze through the trees and the soft thump-thump of a ball being kicked somewhere down the street. In Glenda’s yard, the world had slowed to the gentle pace of a Southern afternoon.
On the wooden porch, Glenda sat cross-legged in a white wicker chair, a paperback in hand, her reading glasses low on her nose. Every so often she looked up, not to check on anything in particular, but just to soak it all in—the hazy shimmer in the air, the slant of sunlight on her garden beds, and most of all, the sweet sight of her baby girl playing on a patch of grass near the rose bush.
Two-year-old Jess sat barefoot on a checkered picnic blanket, legs splayed out in a haphazard W-shape, wearing a little yellow romper with strawberries on the pockets. Her soft brown curls were tied up into two stubby pigtails, already a little lopsided from her wriggling. She was holding a red plastic toy that had a spinning top, thumping it against the blanket with chaotic glee. Next to her, a half-crumbled graham cracker lay forgotten.
From her spot on the porch, Glenda looked up from her book. She was curled in a white wicker chair with one leg tucked beneath her, iced tea sweating beside her elbow on the railing. Her reading glasses were perched low on her nose, but she wasn't really reading now—just stealing moments to watch her daughter play. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“Is she dancin’ now, baby?” Glenda called gently, eyes twinkling.
Jess nodded furiously, pigtails bobbing. “She dancin’ an’ spinnin’ to da sky!” she declared, then raised her arm in imitation and waved her hand as if casting a spell. “Up up up!”
At the edge of the porch stairs, sprawled in the shade like a living statue, lay Chloe. The husky was watchful but still, her blue eyes calmly following Jess’s movements. Her coat shimmered silver and ash in the light, every line of her posture quietly composed.
On the opposite side of the yard, bounding with all the energy of ten puppies rolled into one, was JT. A smaller golden Labrador, she was a blur of legs and tongue, ears flopping comically as she darted around the garden beds. Her tail wagged like it was caught in a windstorm. She paused only to bark at a butterfly, then caught sight of Jess waving and squealing with excitement.
“C’loe is lookin’. She got watchin’ eyes!” she called, squinting toward the husky.
“She’s watchin’ out for you, baby,” Glenda said. “That’s her job.”
“She’s a ’tecter,” Jess agreed, nodding solemnly. “She a ’rmy doggy. She say, ‘Who dere?!’” Jess deepened her voice in imitation and puffed up her chest. “‘No bad guys! Go ’way!’”
Glenda chuckled. “You got it exactly right.”
Jess crawled a little closer to Chloe, who didn’t move, only tilted her head as the toddler approached. Jess stopped just short of touching her and sat cross-legged again.
“Hi C’loe,” she said, more softly. “You bein’ good? You seein’ da sky?”
Chloe blinked once, then let out a soft, low breath through her nose. Jess took that as an answer.
“She say yes,” she announced proudly.
JT barked in reply from behind her, already back up and doing a spin.
“She say yes too! She say yes lot!”
Jess turned back toward the spinning toy and gave it another bash. It wobbled off-kilter and toppled onto the blanket.
“Oopsie! It do a boop,” she said, holding up the toy for inspection. “It sleepy now.”
She laid back on the grass next to JT and Chloe, all three stretched out in their own way—one composed, one wriggling, and one sleepy-limbed with a full heart. Jess blinked at the blue sky above, her chubby fingers resting in the grass.
Jess was singing softly now. Not quite a song, more like a string of syllables and toddler rhymes.
“JT is a puppy girl… she got her tailie tail… Chloe got her magic eyes… an’ Mama got her booky book…”
She paused, humming to herself, and then sat up, spreading her arms wide.
“Mama! I do a song! It a music song!”
“Oh, I heard it,” Glenda said. “That’s a hit record if I ever heard one.”
“Mama,” she said suddenly, voice quieter now.
“Yes, baby?”
“Dis da goodest day,” Jess murmured. “Da sky is blue an’ JT kiss me an’ I got snack an’ C’loe is my fren’.”
Glenda’s breath caught just a little. She stood up slowly, walked to the edge of the porch, and looked out at her daughter—limbs stretched, golden curls messy, flanked by two loyal dogs.
“You got a real good heart, Jess,” Glenda said gently. “And you’re right. It is a good day.”
The morning unfurled like a ribbon—soft, warm, and bright with promise.
Glenda had been up since before sunrise, her rhythm set by years of early risings and a house that never really slept. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and toasting bread, the sweet, grainy scent of oatmeal simmering on the stove curling around the edges of the room like a blanket. The radio hummed low from its place on the windowsill—today, Loretta Lynn singing something old and easy—and a cool breeze tugged gently through the mesh of the screen door, teasing the scent of crisp leaves into the house.
Jess stood barefoot in the middle of it all like a proud captain on the bridge of her ship. She wore a pair of soft pink corduroy overalls over a long-sleeved white shirt with daisies on the sleeves. Her hair—fine and flyaway, the color of straw in sunlight—had been brushed that morning into two high, puffy pigtails, already a little fuzzy at the edges from play and movement. She had peanut butter on her cheek and oatmeal on her sleeve, but she was entirely focused.
“I do it today, Mama,” she announced, holding her small fists to her hips. “I feedin’ ’em.”
“You sure you’re up for it, big girl?” Glenda asked without looking away from the stove, where she stirred the pot slowly, making lazy figure eights with the wooden spoon.
“I SO up for it,” Jess declared with gravity. “I gots the ’sponsibil’ty.”
“Well alright then, Miss Responsibility,” Glenda said, smiling to herself. “The scoop’s in the tin. You know the rules.”
Jess marched over to the tall metal tin tucked beside the fridge, proudly labeled in black marker: CHLOE & JT’S FOOD. Her helper stool waited beside it like a trusty steed. She dragged it into place with a loud scrape, each inch earned with a determined grunt. Chloe lifted her head at the noise, her ears pricking slightly, but she did not rise from her post by the door.
The husky had claimed the back corner of the kitchen as her own, where she could watch both the comings and goings and the screen door. She’d been stationed like that since morning—alert but at rest, always half-ready. The white of her fur caught the sunlight, glowing against the darker floor, her lean, muscled body coiled like a resting soldier. Chloe was never twitchy, never overeager. Even after two years of domestic life, the discipline of her Army days still showed in the way she moved—deliberate, quiet, composed.
Jess peered over at her, eyes wide with admiration.
“I gonna get your kibbies, Chwoe,” she said softly, the L of Chloe still elusive. “Wait for it, pretty girl.”
At the sound of the food tin’s lid clanging open, JT came skittering around the corner from the living room, her nails clicking like tap shoes across the floor. The little black Lab’s energy was a firecracker—always bounding, always panting, her tail a blur of excitement. She let out a small whimper of glee and jumped once in place, spinning in a half-circle as if to say: Oh my gosh, is it time, is it really time, oh yes it is, yes it is!
Jess laughed, delighted. “JT!! You readies!!”
She pulled the scoop from the tin with both hands, her little arms wobbling slightly under its weight.
“’Member what Mama said,” she told herself. “One for JT… one for Chwoe… no spillin’, no extra, no mess mess.”
She managed to pour the first scoop into Chloe’s sky-blue ceramic bowl with impressive care. A few pieces tumbled out and bounced across the floor, but Jess ignored them for now. She turned to Chloe with pride.
“Dat one’s yours. You got da blue bowl. Is your fav’rite.”
Chloe rose slowly, her movement fluid, and padded over to the bowl. She didn’t immediately eat. She gave Jess a brief, measured glance—as though assessing her performance—then dipped her head with quiet approval and began chewing, one bite at a time.
“She say thank you in her brain,” Jess whispered. “She say ‘Good job, Jess. I proud.’”
Glenda, listening from the stove, smiled into her spoon.
JT was hopping in place now, her pink tongue out, tail wagging so hard it thwacked against a kitchen cabinet.
Jess bent for another scoop, a bit more confidently this time, and wobbled back over to JT’s dish. The little Lab nudged her hand in excitement, causing half the scoop to spill.
“Noooo, JT!” Jess yelped, a bit flustered. “Wait! Wait your turn!”
JT yipped and skittered backward obediently, tail still thumping the floor like a drumroll. Jess bent and, with great care, scooped some of the spilled kibble off the floor and back into the bowl.
“There,” she said with finality. “Now you may eat.”
JT lunged forward and dove in, scarfing the food with loud crunches and snorts, her ears flopping forward as she buried her face in the dish.
Jess stepped back and wiped her hands on the front of her overalls. “She so hungry, Mama! She eat like a trash goblin!”
“She’s got the appetite of one, that’s for sure,” Glenda said, now holding out a spoon toward Jess. “Come help me stir while your girls finish breakfast.”
Jess scampered over to the stove and clambered back onto her stool. Glenda moved the pot carefully so Jess could reach and helped her guide the spoon through the thickening oats.
“Swirls, not slaps,” Glenda murmured.
“I doin’ swirlies,” Jess said. “I makin’ it cozy.”
She stirred, her little tongue poking out between her lips in concentration. Then, without looking up, she asked, “Mama… how come Chwoe eat so slow?”
“Because she’s polite,” Glenda said. “She takes her time, tastes every bite. She learned how to wait, back when your daddy was in the war with her.”
“She was a army girl,” Jess whispered reverently. “She gots rules in her head.”
“That’s right.”
Jess turned and watched Chloe, who was still calmly chewing, taking small, measured bites.
“She so cool,” Jess said. “I love her. I wanna marry her.”
Glenda laughed aloud. “Well, I’m sure she’d say yes. She’s already loyal to you.”
Jess looked over at JT, now licking her empty dish with sloppy glee.
“And JT is… not slow. She’s a silly billy.”
“That’s right too.”
“I love her a lot, too. But she a goofus.”
“Well, it takes all kinds.”
Jess sighed dramatically, dropping the spoon into the pot. “Mama?”
“Yes?”
“I fink I wanna be a dog when I grow up.”
Glenda turned and lifted her daughter off the stool, holding her close. “Well, you got the spirit for it. You’re loyal, you’re kind, you love to eat, and you’re real good at belly rubs.”
Jess giggled and threw her arms around her mama’s neck.
“And you got a howl like nobody else,” Glenda added, tickling her ribs.
Jess squealed and squirmed, her laughter echoing off the cabinets. “AHHHOOOOO!”
Chloe lifted her head at the sound, eyes alert but calm. JT barked in delighted reply, bounding over to join in the ruckus, tail wagging furiously.
Jess wriggled out of Glenda’s arms and ran back toward the bowls.
“I did da feedin’ today!” she sang. “I da Dog Mama! I da Chef Lady!”
JT jumped up and licked her cheek in noisy agreement, sending Jess into another round of giggles.
Glenda leaned against the counter, watching it all—sunlight on blonde hair, kibble underfoot, two dogs circling their girl like moons. The day was ordinary and magic all at once.
And somewhere behind it all, the oatmeal finished cooking, forgotten for just a moment more.
It was a late morning that carried the smell of something sweet baking and the faint scent of lemons from the clean countertops. The kitchen was warm but not stifling, the back door open to let in the cooler air, which swirled lazily through the lace curtains and made them flutter like ghosts. The hum of the refrigerator mingled with the scratchy soft whir of the fan on the counter. It was a Saturday, and the house moved with that gentle, unhurried rhythm it always had when Lucille came to visit.
Lucille was seated at the kitchen table, long limbs folded with grace into one of the aged wooden chairs, a coffee mug cradled in both hands. Her tall frame somehow managed to look completely relaxed in a house that had never designed with someone of her stature in mind. her hair coiled into a thick, shiny braid that reached down over one shoulder. She had removed her shoes at the door, and her bare feet—long and impeccably pedicured—were tucked politely under the chair, despite JT’s ongoing attempts to lick them.
Lucille smiled down at the eager black Lab at her feet. “You’re terribly persistent, aren’t you?” JT gave a happy whuff in reply, then padded back across the linoleum to flop near her water bowl, content that she'd at least been acknowledged.
Jess rounded the corner with purpose, pigtails bouncing and bare feet slapping softly against the floor. She wore a blue sundress today, one of the ones Glenda had sewn, with tiny embroidered sunflowers around the hem. Her mouth had a smudge of peanut butter at the corner. She carried something in her arms: a menagarie of colourful items that she cradled with care.
When she reached the table, she dropped the items dramatically onto the floor in a small pile and stood beside them, one hand on her hip and the other raised as if about to make a proclamation to a crowd.
“Wisten up, Gwamma Lucille,” Jess announced with all the gravity of a courtroom judge. “Dis is Chwoe’s Toy Cowection.”
Lucille blinked once, then leaned forward with interest. “Well now. Is that so?”
“Yuh-huh,” Jess said seriously, then gestured to the pile. “I keeped it safe. I da Keeper of Toys.”
Lucille bit back a smile and nodded solemnly. “An important title.”
“Is a vewy big deal,” Jess assured her. “Somebody gots to do it. Chloe don’t know where she puts her stuff. She f’getful now. I ’member everything.”
Lucille rested her chin on one hand, eyes dancing with delight. “Show me what you’ve got, love.”
Lucille, already charmed beyond measure, set down her coffee and leaned her elbows onto the table, lacing her fingers under her chin. “The Keeper of Chloe’s toys?” she asked, solemn and interested. “That’s a mighty important job.”
Jess nodded with gravity, pigtails swaying. “Big job, You gotta ’member who’s gots slobber, an’ what toy got da sadness.”
Lucille blinked with amusement. “The… sadness?”
“Yuh-huh.” Jess knelt down beside the pile and picked up a very tired-looking stuffed pig—its color somewhere between pink and gray now, and its one remaining ear hanging on by a thread. “Dis one is Mr. Squeaky. But he don’t squeak no more.” She gave it a squeeze. The toy hissed faintly, a pathetic wheeze of tired air.
Lucille made a soft gasp. “Oh no.”
“He got the sadness,” Jess whispered, hugging the toy briefly. “Chwoe squeaked him too much. She loved him so hard he got hollow.”
Lucille smiled gently. “Well, sometimes that happens to things we love.”
Jess nodded. “He still got his snuggles, though. He stay on her sleepy bed now. She don’t bite him. She just keep her footsie on him when she layin’ down.”
Across the kitchen, Chloe—dignified as always—lay curled near the doorframe, her nose on her paws, her coat catching little strips of light. She did not move, but she blinked, calm and regal, her watchful gaze flicking to Jess as if she understood every word.
Jess gently placed Mr. Squeaky on a clean dish towel laid out like an altar. She then lifted the second item: a thick knotted rope toy, frayed at both ends, one knot chewed until it hung like seaweed.
“Dis is Battle Rope,” Jess said with deep seriousness. “It’s for fights.”
Lucille gasped dramatically. “Oh, dear.”
“Not mean fights,” Jess clarified. “Just tuggy wars. We play fair. I hold it wif all my might an’ I pull, an’ Chwoe goes GRRRR, an’ then I go EEEEE, an’ then she wins.”
“She always wins?”
“Always,” Jess confirmed, narrowing her eyes. “Even when Daddy tries, he don’t win. She got da strength in her bones..”
Lucille reached out and touched Jess’s shoulder lightly. “She’s got grit, that one.”
Jess didn’t quite know what grit meant, but she nodded anyway.
Jess held up the next item—a half-chewed, once-green tennis ball. It was sticky and fraying, and a bit of leaf was stuck to one side.
“Dis…” Jess said, lowering her voice like she was revealing a family heirloom, “is Fetchie.”
Lucille raised an eyebrow. “Fetchie?”
She lifted out a thick, olive-green canvas tug toy, shaped a bit like a bone but clearly reinforced with patches and a faint, worn-off label on the side. One edge looked frayed, the other looped for gripping.
“Da Sergeant. This one is for tough,” she said solemnly. “Like if you gots to do hard muscle time. Chwoe use him when she got energy that goes crackle. He don’t got no squeaks, just serious.” She flexed her arms to show how serious. “She go grrrr, but not in a silly way. This is big doggy grrrr.”
Lucille took the toy gently from her, inspecting it. “Strong stitching.”
“Yuh-huh. Mama say Daddy bought it at the vet place. For soldier dogs. So dis one is when she do strength work.”
Jess set the Sergeant beside her previous trio like a general returning to base.
“Now this one,” she said, pulling out a ragged but somehow regal-looking stuffed bunny, “is Pink Baby.”
Lucille tilted her head. “A baby?”
Jess nodded gravely. “Dis one is only for snuggles. No biting. No tossing. Just cuddle. She don’t let JT touch it.” She cradled the bunny in the crook of her arm. “Sometimes she takes Pink Baby to her corner and just lays her head on her like… mmmphhh... like that.”
Lucille smiled softly. “A comfort toy.”
“She gots feelin’s,” Jess whispered, hugging Pink Baby once before laying her next to Mr. Squeaky. “Chwoe don’t always say her feelin’s, so I listen when she pick this one.”
She rummaged again, grunting with effort, and produced a brightly colored, faintly cratered rubber ball that jiggled when she shook it.
“Dis is Boom Ball,” Jess declared. “It go HOOOOONK when you bounce it on da porch. Chwoe don’t like the honk sound, but she like to bump it wif her nose. I think she just likes to chase it by herself. Like she got a secret plan.”
Lucille chuckled. “Tactical pursuit.”
“Yuh-huh. She push it, then she pounce it, then she walk away. Like, ‘Mission complete.’” Jess set the ball carefully aside and reached back in.
Out came a toy that looked like a floppy disc with cloth tails—clearly once used for fetch.
“Dis is da Spinner,” Jess said, holding it up with reverence. “Mama used it for trick times. You throw it and it go wheeeeeee like a spinny hat. Chwoe learned to catch it like a real smartie. Only she don’t like when it lands wrong. She’ll look at you like, ‘Try again.’”
Lucille’s eyes crinkled. “She has high standards.”
“She a disc-ipline dog,” Jess said proudly. “She don’t fetch bad throws.”
From the bag now came a plush alligator, surprisingly intact save for a band of duct tape around the tail.
“This is Gator Girl. She is her trainin’ buddy. When Chwoe wants to bite things but not be wild, she picks Gator. She bites three times—only three—then drops it. Always three. I counted.”
Lucille nodded. “Controlled sparring.”
Jess giggled. “Gator got her own rules too. She lives on the mat when not in use.”
She reached in again and produced a toy with a shiny finish: a soft rubber dog-shaped chew toy with a mirror on one side.
“Dis is Mirror Pup,” Jess whispered. “Chwoe looked at it one day and just stared for so long. She didn’t growl or bark. She just... looked. I fink she thinks it’s her twin.”
Next was a long, striped plush snake—vibrant blue and purple, squeakers sewn into every bend.
“Dis one is Fluffy Snake. She don’t squeak it. She wraps it around her body like it’s a blankie. JT always wants it but Chloe keeps it in her den. She only plays wif it when she wants ‘alone time.’ Like a cozy meeting.”
Lucille grinned. “Self-care snake.”
Jess nodded seriously. “She deserve it.”
Then came the last toy. Jess pulled it from the tote with both hands, carefully like it was delicate glass. It was a black and red frisbee, clearly worn with love, its center ragged and torn, but its edges still solid.
“This,” Jess said softly, “is The Captain.”
Lucille’s voice lowered. “Is this her favorite?”
“Yuh-huh,” Jess breathed. “Only Daddy or Mama or you can throw it. Not me yet. She don’t like baby throws. She wants da arc. The big one. The one that goes WHOOSH across the park. Not just da backyard. You gotta throw it like a pro.”
Lucille stared at the frisbee with reverence. “A noble weapon.”
“She only brings it to the door when she wants real fetch. She makes this face,” Jess scrunched her own face to mimic Chloe’s pointed stare. “Like, ‘You know what to do.’”
Jess stood and placed both hands behind her back like a tour guide concluding a presentation.
“So,” she said brightly. “Dat’s da whole cowection. She had more, but JT taked some an’ put ’em in da mud. And Daddy say he stepped on one dat went squeee in da dark an’ it scared him, so Mama put dat one in the garage.”
Lucille chuckled, pressing the tips of her fingers to her lips. “Well, I must say—this collection is very impressive.”
Suddenly, Jess leaned forward, voice low and soft. “I gonna get her a new one,” Jess said. “Wif my coins. I gots four quarters and a Canadian one from the laundry. Mama say that one don’t count but I fink it’s speshul.”
Lucille leaned forward, her voice just a touch dramatic. “And what kind of toy will you choose for Chloe the noble warrior?”
Jess paused, clearly taking this question seriously. She tapped her chin.
“Somethin’ soft but strong,” she said finally. “Wif a heart inside. Maybe… maybe a lion. Or a sloth. ’Cause sloths is calm. Like her. They don’t chase, they just look at you like…” She made a sleepy, wise expression.
Lucille clapped her hands gently. “An excellent choice. Very fitting.”
Jess beamed.
Behind them, JT let out a sudden excited bark and chased a dust mote toward the fridge. Chloe did not stir.
