The tiny dog zips across the room, jumps onto the couch, spins three circles, and then sprints back toward the kitchen for no reason at all.
Cole watches her disappear.
“…Does she ever stop moving?”
“No.”
Hank is still leaning against Cole’s leg like a furry support beam while Psycho and Menace observe the situation from their respective thrones on the couch and coffee table.
Cole slowly looks around the room again.
Dog leaning on him.
One dog chasing a ball.
One tiny dog vibrating at high speed.
Two judgmental cats watching from above.
He exhales.
“You live in a zoo.”
I grin.
“Don’t forget the goats.”
Cole closes his eyes briefly.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Oh you should be,” I say. “Kevin is a menace.”
Outside, right on cue, Pickle the donkey lets out another dramatic bray that echoes through the yard.
Cole stares at the door.
“…What did you name the donkey again?”
“Pickle.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“I’m going to need a drink.”
I shrug.
“You’re in the right house.”
I wince when I bend down to pick up Moose’s slobbery tennis ball, and the sharp pull across my cheek reminds me very quickly that my face is not having a great night.
The movement is small, but Cole notices anyway.
Of course he does.
His eyes narrow slightly as he watches me straighten up again, and something shifts in his expression the second he realizes I’m trying very hard to pretend the bruise on my face doesn’t exist.
“Sit,” he says.
