Art Heists and Hairballs

There’s no such thing as a typical day at Helping Paws Animal Shelter, and this wasn’t the first time I’ve had a soggy box waiting for me on the doorstep with a disgruntled cat inside.

However, this was the first time the cat talked to me.

What did the barista put in my coffee?

Persephone insists she’s been catnapped, and she’s witnessed an art heist. There’s a huge reward for the safe return of the painting, and that money could go a long way to helping all our animals find their forever homes.

Now I have to convince the gallery owner and her associates—including the suspicious but adorable Henry the Hottie—that I can find the priceless painting.

I don’t know a thing about art, but here I am, at an exhibit opening, wearing a dress called Lucky and co-conspiring with a talking cat. Typical days? They’re a thing of the past, especially if Persephone and I can crack the case and catch the thief.

Hi, my name’s Addie Dawson, and pulling up to Helping Paws Animal Shelter always filled me with trepidation. Not the I hate my job variety. Just the opposite. I loved my job, but I wished there wasn’t any reason for me to have it. The sinking feeling was solely associated with the fact I never knew what might wait for me when I got there.
This was one of those mornings.
My coffee soured in my belly when I spotted the box sitting by the door. Not even a travel crate. A cardboard box. Ugh.
We marched to the beat of our own drums in Harmony, New Hampshire. That was why I felt at home here. So there was an outside chance we’d received a middle-of-the-night delivery.
But I knew better.
I said a quick prayer to Saint Francis of Assisi and climbed out of the car. He was the patron saint of animals, and I had his metaphorical number on speed dial.
“Hey, buddy,” I said as I lowered myself to the pavement beside the box. Dampness immediately seeped through my leggings. The responding yowl sounded an awful lot like help! Definitely a cat, but when they were scared, animals all spoke the same language. I needed to gain its trust in a hurry. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but things will only get better from here on out. My name’s Addie, and you’re at Helping Paws. You’re safe here. You’ll be warm, fed, and loved and then I’ll find you an awesome forever home.”
I was rewarded with another loud meow and some scratching in response. Good. I liked them feisty.
“This isn’t my first rodeo, so I’ll bring you inside before I let you out.” I fully expected that protest when I lifted the box. The only thing more heartbreaking than finding an animal waiting for me in the parking lot was having them escape before we even got in the door. This was New Hampshire, and we had some serious wildlife waiting in the woods behind the shelter for that kind of opportunity.
Kicking the door closed behind me, I swiped the light switch with my elbow. I’d done this too many times. The animals who called Helping Paws home greeted me.
“Good morning! We have someone new. I’ll be getting them settled and Brooke and Casey will be here soon to help me get everyone fed.” People thought I was crazy for telling the animals everything I planned to do, but I liked to think they understood me. Even if they didn’t know the words, they definitely understood intent and goodwill.
My efforts were met with another yowl I hoisted the box onto the table. Whoever was inside was pretty heavy, which I hoped was a good sign. A paw poked through the drooping slit that was supposed to be an airhole. I hit speed dial to Saint Francis one more time, hoping Brooke would be able to handle whoever I found inside when she arrived. She was studying to be a vet, and what she didn’t have in certifications she made up for with some seriously on-point instincts. Although my employees were always quick to suggest we call Dr. Oliver, the good-looking recent veterinarian grad that volunteered time at the shelter when he could.
The yowls from the box became more urgent, almost human sounding.
“You’re almost out, I promise.” I put on my gloves before slitting the duct tape that held the soggy cardboard together.
I was greeted by a plump, frowning cat. Ears back, eyes full of rage. And a hiss.
“I like that you’ve got some fight in you after a rough night. You’re safe here.” I didn’t attempt to pick up the cat yet. I liked having eyeballs too much to even thinking about handling an angry animal. “Newcomers get wet food. It’s a luxury I can’t give you every day, but we’ll make sure you’re comfortable here until we can find you a home.”
The newest resident of Helping Paws was a black cat, and they were notoriously hard to adopt. We were a no-kill shelter, but each long-term resident meant that we wouldn’t have the room to help someone else.
I’d do everything in my power to find this cat a new home. Just like I did for everyone who came through our doors.
Placing the food and water on the table, I smiled at the cat, who’d taken the first opportunity of freedom to clean themself. Besides some muddy paws, this cat appeared to be in good shape. Saint Francis was reading his text messages today.
The cat looked me square in the eye. “I need your help.”
“Of course you do.”
Wait a minute, what?
I turned to the door, but no one was there. It was just me and the shelter animals. I looked at the cat again. “What did you say?”
I was treated to one of those exasperated looks that only a cat could give. “I need help. I’ve been catnapped.”
“Good morning!” Casey called out as she walked in with Brooke. The animals went wild in response to her voice. There was something about the way she talked to them that made them all fall in love with her. When she wasn’t working at the shelter, she was a YouTube influencer, so we played her videos for the animals when we needed to soothe them. “We brought oatmeal breakfast cookies.”
“Are you actually going to eat them this time?” Casey loved to cook, but she frequently had a first date on the horizon, which meant Brooke and I reaped the benefits of her hobby. I didn’t mind. My idea of a perfect Friday night was sitting in front of the TV watching the weekly marathon of my favorite cooking show, Parking Lot Potluck, and eating food someone else made.
“It’s Friday, so it means I’ve got to fit into Lucky.” It was the name of her little black dress that never disappointed.
The ladies approached the table and frowned.
“I see we have someone new.” Brooke swallowed a mouthful of cookie and squinted to inspect the cat. “Did the cat come in this box or is this a if it fits I sits situation?”
“I was catnapped!” The cat protested again. The voice had a hint of an older female, one who’d had a pack-a-day habit and had seen some things. “I need your help!”