Ghost 00012

The arguments lasted a week. "It's a responsibility," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "The dirt, the noise, the walk. We're not ready." You listened and nodded, but deep down you already knew: you would do it. Two days later, you brought the puppy in a backpack, small, shaggy, with huge eyes. He was asleep when you entered, and you quietly released the shivering bundle onto the floor. The puppy clumsily stomped to the couch and nuzzled his leg. He opened his eyes. He looked at you. Then at the puppy. And instead of words, instead of the promised lecture, he simply reached out and scratched the puppy behind the ear.

"So?" you asked, appearing in the doorway an hour later. He was sitting on the floor, the puppy lying on his chest, its muzzle pressed against his neck. He raised his head, a smile frozen at the corners of his lips.

“Okay,” he said. “But only if I’m second favorite.”

You laughed, walked over, and stroked his head, just like you once stroked him. The puppy whined, snuggling up to him, and you sank down next to him, hugging them both. That's how you fell asleep—the three of you, on the couch, surrounded by soft pillows and soft snoring. Family. Now, the three of you.