Savannah chuckled. “I know, right? Creepy.”
“Yet here I am at The Paw House, two days before Christmas,” he said, tossing fake pine garland and trying to tune out her teasing. “What a way to spend Christmas.”
“You can’t mess up garland,” she said. “Just fluff and twist.”
He didn’t correct her. Savannah was the only one at the Georgia Tims Shelter who could joke with him like that. She’d been in foster care longer. She knew how to float through stuff like this—decorating places that weren’t home, smiling when you didn’t feel like it.
He mostly stayed quiet, hands stuffed in his hoodie unless someone made him help.
Truth was, he didn’t trust animals. Not since he was five, when a neighbor’s dog clamped down on his arm like he was a chew toy. Everyone said it was because he ran—but what else was he supposed to do when something growled at you? Run, and never look back.
“Heads up!”
Gus turned just in time to see Shakim—another teen from the shelter and Savannah’s boyfriend—on a ladder, juggling a box of tangled lights.
“These are the good ones—the big bulbs,” he said. “Miss Borsky said no climbing, but how else are you supposed to put up lights?”
Savannah rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna break your neck, and she’ll blame Gus for it.”
“Then Gus’ll go down a hero,” Shakim grinned.
Gus smirked, despite himself.
“August,” snapped Miss Borsky from the doorway—voice sharp as scissors. Clipboard in hand, sweater permanently stretched out of shape.
“If that ladder shifts and he falls, I’m not spending the night in the ER. Get down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Shakim muttered.
Behind her, Lloyd—her brother and the shelter’s owner—gave a small wave, Santa hat on his head and Yorkie Terrier in his arms.
“Don’t mind her,” he smiled. “She’s allergic to joy.”
“I’m allergic to unpaid labor and insurance claims,” she muttered.
Gus turned back to the garland. Across the room, a Shih Tzu with crooked ears watched him from behind the kennel bars.
He stared. It stared back.
The dog dropped a chewed-up rope toy at its gate.
Gus looked away. He wasn’t there to bond. Just decorate.
___
By afternoon, the shelter looked… better. The lights worked—mostly. Paper snowflakes hung in the windows. Savannah had rigged a wreath out of red yarn and coat hangers. Even Miss Borsky hadn’t said anything negative in the last twenty minutes.
“It’s not a miracle,” she said finally. “But it’s not awful.”
Gus sat on the front desk, twisting a strand of garland. The Labrador—Marvin, according to the marker on his kennel—still stared at him.
“He likes you,” Lloyd said, stepping beside him.
“He doesn’t know me.”
“Doesn’t matter. Dogs don’t care about your past. They care about your posture.”
“I don’t like dogs.”
Lloyd didn’t argue. Just checked a flickering plug and muttered, “That socket’s a mess. Been meaning to fix it.”
___
The sky was a soft, muted orange, as if it had been watered down with cream. The sun was setting slowly, casting a warm glow over the snow-covered ground. In the distance, light cascaded off the windows of nearby buildings, creating a peaceful scene.
“We’re walking back together, right?” Savannah asked, looping her scarf around her neck.
“You ever wonder what it’s like for them on Christmas?” she asked suddenly. “The animals, I mean. Like, do they know it’s a holiday?”
Shakim shrugged. “Probably just want someone to feed them.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Gus laughed, his breath billowed.
They rounded the corner, streetlights flickering on, just as the snow began. A few flakes at first, then clusters spinning in the wind, settling on cuffs and hoods. The street blurred, the world softening with each step.
___
Back at the Shelter, silence had settled over the common area. Savannah studied in the corner. Across the room, Shakim's thumbs tapped furiously at his controller, the muted game flashing colored light across his concentrated face.
In his room upstairs, Gus stared at his glitter-speckled fingertips, then wiped them absently on his jeans.
Snowflakes drifted past his window. He couldn't shake the memory of that dog—Marvin—and the single bark that had followed him out the door of The Paw House. It was like a goodbye that expected an answer.
He walked to his desk drawer and retrieved the worn leather journal, its spine cracked from years of his mother's prayers. The last time he'd opened it was the day the social worker had sat him down with that look on her face—the one that meant nobody was coming home.
___
At The Paw House, electricity snapped from the faulty socket. The smoke detector gave a tentative chirp before erupting into a full-throated scream.
Marvin's ears perked up first. His bark cut through the silence.
A calico cat's fur bristled as she leapt to her feet. Within seconds, the shelter erupted—whines became barks, meows turned frantic, paws paced anxiously behind gates.
Flames licked at the garland, then caught the paper snowflakes. Small at first, but hungry.
Gray tendrils of smoke twisted toward the ceiling.
Lloyd burst through the door, fumbling with keys, swinging kennels open as he moved through the haze.
Marvin refused to leave. Instead, he nudged persistently at a drowsy hound's cage latch until it gave way. Only then did he bolt for the exit.
___
Gus glanced up from his journal when a strange light wavered across his ceiling. Orange. Flickering. Too erratic for passing cars. He rushed to the window and his stomach dropped.
"Fire!" he shouted, already running for the stairs. "The shelter's burning!"
Downstairs, controllers clattered to the floor. Savannah's textbook thudded shut.
"Paw House!" Miss Borsky gasped, yanking open the coat closet.
They grabbed whatever was closest—mismatched gloves, someone else's hat. Gus's heart pounded as they sprinted through the snow: Don’t let them die. Please—not the dogs.
___
Gus arrived to find Marvin already outside the gate, his amber-lit fur silhouetted against the flames. The dog barked rhythmically, as if taking inventory of who remained trapped inside.
"Most are out," Lloyd gasped at the entrance. "But some scattered behind the building—”
Before he finished, Savannah and Shakim were already racing toward the back. Gus hesitated only a moment before following them inside.
The shelter had transformed into a nightmare. Flickering emergency lights cast shadows across overturned water bowls while smoke spiraled toward the ceiling. Gus scanned the row of kennels—all empty.
All except the last one.
From its corner came a frightened whimper. Gus knelt, fingers fumbling with the latch. Inside, a small puppy cowered, its entire body quivering.
Suddenly Marvin appeared beside him, gently nudging the terrified pup forward.
"Look at you," Gus whispered, "playing shepherd…”
Cradling the lightweight, trembling bundle against his chest, Gus watched as Marvin glanced back once before leading them toward safety.
___
Emergency lights pulsed red against the snow. Smoke billowed from the shelter's blackened windows.
Gus felt the puppy's heartbeat against his palm, while Marvin pressed warm against his ankle.
Miss Borsky's voice cut through the chaos. Lloyd removed his Santa hat, twisting it between his fingers. A tear tracked through the glitter on Savannah's cheek.
Gus tilted his face to the star-scattered darkness above. "Thank You," he breathed.
___
A few days later, the Georgia Tims Shelter had transformed. The fire's aftermath lingered only in scorch marks and the faint smell of smoke.
Some of the rescued animals had been sent to other shelters, but a handful now padded across the linoleum floor of Gus’s temporary home.
They were decorating again.
Savannah tied bows to the bannister. Shakim wrangled light strands and Miss Borsky supervised from a distance.
Marvin trotted through the common room with a strand of garland in his mouth, tail wagging like a metronome. The little puppy — newly nicknamed “Sprinkle” — stumbled behind him, proudly dragging a single red ornament in his teeth.
A smile crept across Gus's face despite himself.
Marvin trotted to a halt at Gus's feet, the garland dangling from his mouth like a prize. His eyes lifted, bright and questioning.
When Gus's fingers closed around the decoration, something shifted between them. He draped the strand across the railing while Marvin's tail swept once, twice against the floor. A single bark echoed through the room.
The word "Christmas" hung in the air—not wrapped in expectations, but in something warmer. Something real.
🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story
Sometimes the best gifts don’t come wrapped—just rescued.
