“Sorry to bother you so late.”

The call came at 3:47 a.m., and I could hear the rescue coordinator struggling to keep her voice steady.

I’d picked up Latte earlier that day — a gentle, Golden retriever with impossibly soft ears. Just a routine foster. Two weeks, maybe three, until she was adopted.

“Her sister is losing it in intake,” the coordinator said. “She hasn’t stopped crying since Latte left. We’ve tried everything — her sister’s scent on blankets, enrichment toys, calming vests. She even broke a tooth trying to chew through the kennel door.”

I glanced down at Latte, curled up at the foot of my bed.

Only… she wasn’t asleep.

Her eyes were wide open.
Fixed on the door.
Waiting.

By 4 a.m., I was driving to the shelter in my pajamas.

Chai was in terrible shape — her voice gone from screaming, paws scraped raw from pacing, shaking so badly she could barely stay upright. The moment she caught Latte’s scent from my car, she melted against the crate and went completely still.

Like she could finally breathe again.

“Just keep them together for a few days,” they said.
“Until we sort something out.”

That was eight months ago.

They sleep tangled together every night.
They eat from the same bowl, even though I bought two.
When Latte goes to the vet, Chai comes along.
When Chai gets groomed, Latte waits nearby.

I thought I was meant to be a short stop on their journey.

Turns out, I was where they were meant to end up.