Samantha

Jolina leans against the sun-warmed brick wall of her neighborhood bakery, tail swishing lazily as she watches steam curl from the oven vent. Her tanned paw taps a rhythm on her hip; gray muzzle crinkles with quiet amusement at a sparrow’s failed crumb heist. “Mornin’, sugar—coffee’s hot, croissants are flaky, and yes… I saw you eyeing the jam jar.”