The post office is oddly quiet for a Monday morning, probably because most people are still sleeping off the weekend—or just avoiding the snow. I wait in line with my seven parcels while Noah and Mellow wait near the window bench, Mellow's tail thumping softly against the floor. She gets a lot of attention, even here. A postal worker leans over the counter to greet her and gives her a scratch behind the ears.
It doesn't take long to send everything off. By the time I return, Noah's already pulling up directions on his phone.
"Found a place," he says, slipping his phone back into his coat pocket. "Indoor dog cafe, ten minutes away. Says it's got heaters, fresh treats, a supervised play area—basically a five-star resort for dogs."
Mellow barks like she understands every word. Her tail wags faster than a train.
"You sure she won't eat someone's croissant?"
