Taking a sip of my Snickerdoodle latte with whipped cream, I suggest, “We could also organize a gift-wrapping event for everything we collect to get the community involved.”
“Good idea.” She jots it down in her notebook.
After a few more minutes brainstorming the details, I say, “We should get the tree before picking up the dog.”
An hour later, we’ve selected a seven-foot spruce that the lot attendant helps us secure in my truck bed. Bree seems moderately disinterested. Between the fresh, piney smell, how cheerful everyone is, and “Dashing through the Snow” playing in the background, I don’t understand why she’s not smiling at least.
Next, we take a detour to the grocery store. I fill a cart with dinner ingredients, decorations, and dog supplies—treats, bowls, and a bed.
She adds a few chew toys to the basket.
I lift an eyebrow, curious and pleased she’s getting in on the action. “What? He’s been abandoned once. He deserves something nice.”
So does she.
When we return to the vet, I’m about to suggest the name Dasher to Bree. I hesitate because naming him seems a little too close to confirming our commitment. I realize when the dog greets us with wild enthusiasm, practically leaping into my arms, I already have (and not just to the dog).“He likes you,” Bree says.
“Of course, I’m a likable guy.”
“Is that so? I’d say your biggest fan is?—”
Her sharp expression suggests she’s about to accuse me of being my biggest fan, when the vet looks between the two of us like a cat batting a toy.
Backpedaling, Bree blurts, “Me.”
Shocked, I ask, “Is that so?”
Her mouth works as she struggles to say something without revealing to the vet that the dog’s temporary home is anything but stable and his foster parents’ marriage is a sham.
The vet says, “He’s going to need special food for a while to help him gain weight and these supplements.” She hands me a bottle of pills. “Otherwise, he’s in surprisingly good shape. Just needs some TLC.”
We thank the vet and promise to keep her posted.
The dog sits between Bree and me in the truck, resting his chin on my leg and his rump against her thigh. She keeps her hands folded in her lap and I wonder if she’s afraid that if she lets good things into her life, they’ll disappear. Or that she believes she just deserves a bland, beige life and plain black tea when there are festive Christmas flavors with caramel andcinnamon to drink.
Back at my house, we bring in the tree and all our purchases. The dog explores cautiously, sniffing every corner before settling beside the fireplace with a contented sigh.
Unpacking the pet supplies, I say, “He needs a name. We can’t just keep calling him ‘The Dog.’ I was thinking Dasher.”
“Like the reindeer? We can’t name the dog after another animal.”
“You must come up with character names all the time. Any suggestions?”
Bree watches him thoughtfully. “It’s a painstaking process. It’s hard not to use the names of people I know and I try to avoid using popular names for antagonists. For this guy, what about Dickens?”
“Dickens?”
“It’s Christmas, and he’s like a character from a Dickens novel—poor, overlooked, but ultimately finding—” She goes quiet.
“A family? A happy ending? Love?” I supply.
She shrugs.
I smile, oddly touched by her choice. “Dickens is good. But I still like Dasher.”
“That suggests he might run away.” Her tone is tight again, like she’s afraid of good things slipping through her fingers.
“You have a point.” I open my phone and the social media app my fans gravitate toward and say hello, then pan to the as-yet-to-be-decorated tree, and then the dog, narrating all the while.
