“You can name the whole litter if you want.”
Her expression turned thoughtful. “Okay. I’m going to have to give this some thought. You said there are four, right?”
“The vet saw four on the X-ray, but it’s possible a fifth puppy was hiding,” I told her.
“Four’s a good number,” Phoebe said. “It’s the smallest squared prime.”
“I have no idea what that means.” I nudged my shoulder against hers. I’d never understood her when she started talking about math, but once upon a time, her math geekiness had been a huge turn-on for me.
“Two squared,” Phoebe said. “Two is the smallest prime number.”
“You’re going to give them math names, aren’t you?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “I can name them anything I want. You said so.”
I could feel my lips stretching into a smile. “But remember, cute names will appeal to adopters, although honestly, puppies are usually pretty easy to find homes for. These are pitties or pit mixes, though, and there are a lot of people who’re hesitant about the breed for the same reasons you were.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I’ve changed my mind about them. I can’t imagine Violet biting anyone.”
“Well, she might if she felt threatened. A lot of dogs will bite if you push them far enough, but she’s no more likely to bite than any other dog.”
“There’s something so pure about her,” Phoebe said, her tone hushed. “She just wants a quiet, comfortable life. She doesn’t have an agenda beyond the basic creature comforts.”
“That’s the beauty of animals,” I told her. “They don’t have agendas.”
“I like that,” she said.
“Maybe once you’re back in Boston, you should get a pet,” I suggested.
“Well, my condo doesn’t allow them, but I could get a fish or something.”
“Fun fact: there are fish rescues,” I told her. “Adopt, don’t shop.”
“Fish rescues?” she asked incredulously.
“Yep. You can rescue pretty much any kind of pet you might want.”
“Cool. Oh!” Phoebe sat up straight, staring toward the whelping box. “I think she’s pushing again.”
I followed her gaze. Violet, who had been quietly licking her first puppy while she nursed, had tensed up. “You’re right.”
Phoebe slid her hand into mine, the way she’d done when the first puppy was born, and I couldn’t resist squeezing it. Hand in hand, we watched as another puppy was born. This one was mostly white, with several brown patches. Once Violet cleaned it up, I gave it a quick check.
“Boy,” I told Phoebe.
She beamed at the news. “One of each.” A beep echoed from the kitchen, and her eyes widened. “I forgot all about the chicken.”
“So did I, but I’m starving. Shall we leave her to nurse these two for a few minutes and go eat?”
“Will she be okay?” Phoebe asked, adorably concerned about the dog she hadn’t wanted to bring home.
I nodded. “There’s usually a gap of about thirty minutes between puppies, and we’ll just be in the kitchen. We’ll keep checking on her.”
“’Kay,” Phoebe said, sliding to her feet. She pushed down her shorts, which had ridden up to reveal that little brown birthmark I used to trace with my fingers.
I followed her to the kitchen, and together, we carved the chicken and fixed two plates. We popped open fresh ciders and sat at the kitchen table to eat.
“Should I bring her some chicken?” she asked.
