“Just for an hour. I know you’re still not his biggest fan, but he keeps looking at your door when we walk past. It’s kind of sweet, actually. Or creepy. One of those.”
I looked at Meatball. Meatball looked at me. His tail gave a single, tentative wag.
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “Sure.”
What?
“You’re a lifesaver. Seriously. I owe you so many coffees.” She was already handing me the leash, already backing away.
“There’s treats in my apartment if he gets antsy. He likes the peanut butter ones. Don’t give him more than two or he gets weird. Love you, thank you, you’re amazing!”
She disappeared around the corner, and I stood there in my doorway holding a leash attached to a dog the size of a small bear.
Meatball looked up at me. I looked down at him.
“Well,” I said. “I guess you’re coming in.”
He followed me inside with surprising gentleness. I unclipped his leash and watched him sniff around—the couch, the coffee table, the spot where my shoes had landed by the door.
He moved carefully, like he understood this was my space and he was just a visitor.
I sat back down on the couch, and after a moment he settled at the far end of the living room, lying down with his massive head on his paws. His eyes stayed fixed on me, watching. Waiting.
We stayed like that for a few minutes, the silence between us oddly comfortable. I picked at my cold pasta without really tasting it, my thoughts drifting back to Jack despite my best efforts to think about literally anything else.
I must have made some kind of sound—a sigh, maybe, or something closer to a whimper—because Meatball’s head lifted.
His ears perked forward. He watched me for a long moment, and then slowly, he got to his feet and started walking toward me.
I tensed automatically. But Meatball didn’t lunge.
He just kept coming at that same measured pace, like he was giving me time to tell him to stop.
I didn’t tell him to stop.
He reached the couch and sat beside it.
His tail swept across the floor once, twice. His big eyes looked up at me with something that might have been concern.
“I’m fine,” I told him, which was ridiculous. I was talking to a dog. Explaining myself to an animal who probably just wanted food or belly rubs or whatever dogs wanted.
He inched closer. His nose bumped my knee, soft and wet.
I reached out before I could talk myself out of it.
My fingers touched his fur. It was softer than I expected, thick and warm. I scratched behind his ear, and his whole body seemed to relax into the touch.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. This is okay.”
For about two seconds, he accepted the attention with dignity.
Then something in him broke loose—joy, maybe, or relief, or whatever dogs felt when they finally got what they wanted—and he surged forward.
He didn’t bite. Didn’t growl. He just launched himself at me with the enthusiasm of a creature who had been waiting for this moment his entire life, his tongue everywhere at once, his massive body wiggling with happiness.
“Oh my God—” I tried to push him back but he was relentless, licking my face, my neck, my hands, making sounds of pure canine delight. “Meatball—stop—that’s disgusting—you’re disgusting?—”
He did not stop. If anything, he doubled down, his tail wagging so hard his entire back end swayed with it. He climbed half onto the couch, which shouldn’t have been possible given his size, and pressed his face against mine like he was trying to absorb me through sheer force of affection.
