The Ex Talk

“I’m not snitching. Are you?”

His jaw tightens, and I can tell he’s thinking. “Fine,” he says, and though that word makes my heart soar, what I really want is for him to say my name again.

“Thank you!” I leap up from the table, and it’s only when I’m standing that I realize I’m not sure what I was going to do. Did I think I was going to hug him? “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You won’t regret this. I promise. This show is going to be fucking amazing.”

He’s watching me with an expression of clear amusement. Instead of going in for a hug, I stick out my hand.

“I’m going to hold you to that.” His hand is large, slender fingers fitting between mine and warming my skin. “It was a pleasure breaking up with you.”

7

“His name is Steve,” says the Seattle Humane Society volunteer when we stop in front of the last cage at the end of the row. “But I don’t know if he’d be a great fit for you.”

“Why not?” A tan Chihuahua mix sits in the far corner on a gray fleece blanket, watching me with big brown eyes. He has giant ears and a small black nose and an underbite. He is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Initially, I hadn’t given it much thought when Ameena suggested getting a dog. But my house has felt eerier than usual lately, and having a little animal waiting for me at the end of the day might be exactly what I need. Aside from a pair of guinea pigs Ameena and I had right out of college, I’ve never had a pet of my own. We had a dog named Prince when I was a kid, though I don’t remember him much. My parents had him before I was born, and I was nine when he passed away. Still, I am a perpetual asker of “Can I pet your dog?”

Flora, the volunteer, hmms under her breath. “He . . . has a lot going on. We think he’s about four years old, but we’re not sure. He was found on the streets in Northern California, and he was brought up here to have a better chance of getting adopted. He was actually adopted at the end of the year, but he wasn’t a good fit for the family. They had three young kids, and he’s not aggressive, per se, but he can get a little territorial.”

“Aren’t we all?” I ask, forcing a laugh.

Flora doesn’t return it. “We’ve had him here almost three months now, and we’ve had a lot of trouble placing him. We think he’d be better off as the only pet with an experienced owner. No kids.”

Three months. Three months of this constant yapping and no human to cuddle up with. Three months of loneliness. I can’t even imagine what it’s like at night here, after all the volunteers go home.

“I don’t have any pets or kids,” I say.

“But you’ve never had a dog, right?”

I did mention that when I walked in. But after walking up and down the rows, I can’t imagine going home with any of these dogs— except Steve.

“I had one growing up,” I say, standing taller and trying my best to appear like a responsible dog owner, someone who can handle a supposedly “difficult” dog like Steve. He can’t weigh more than ten pounds. “And I have a friend who’s a trainer.” Sort of. Mary Beth Barkley was sad to hear about Puget Sounds ending, and I promised I’d do my best to get her booked on another show.

“Well then,” Flora says, “let’s see how he does with you.”

She unlocks the crate and bends to take him out, but he backs up into the corner. She has to get into the crate on her hands and knees and bring him out, and when she does, he’s shaking. I can’t imagine a creature that small being a problem dog.

“I’m right out there if you need anything,” Flora says after leading us to a room filled with treats and toys. And she shuts the door, leaving Steve and me alone.

I crouch down. Steve sniffs the air tentatively.

“Hey, little guy,” I say, holding out

my hand, letting him know I’m safe. “It’s okay.”

He inches closer, his tan body still trembling. His underbite makes all his actions seem uncertain. Once he’s within licking distance, his pink tongue darts out and gives my fingers a swipe.

“See, I’m not so bad, right?”

He comes even closer, letting me stroke his back. He’s much softer than he looks, and his paws are white, like he’s wearing tiny boots. I scratch behind his ears until his eyes half close and he drops his head to my knee like this is the best thing he’s ever felt in his life.

Apparently I am doomed to fall quickly with dogs, too—because just like that, I am in love.

* * *

—

I sign the paperwork with Steve in my lap. I decide his full name is Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers Goldstein. A very traditional Jewish name. Flora gives me a leash and a collar and some information about local vets and obedience classes. I don’t want to set him down, even when I have to take out my wallet to pay the $200 adoption fee.