As Amy scoops the Doodle back into her arms, Luka asks, “Do you have something more…manly? And maybe a little older?”
She laughs and instructs her helper to bring in the next round of dogs. These ones are a little older, most of them a year or two old. They’re still technically puppies, but they won’t require quite as much ‘round-the-clock care. I’m in dog heaven, in love with every one I meet.
“Well?” Luka says finally. “Do you want to go for a round three, or…?”
He’s got a lean gray dog with interestingly long legs and an even longer nose in his lap. He’s been petting him nonstop, stroking his velvety ears, not aware of anything else.
“What kind of dog is that?” I ask Amy, pointing to Luka’s new friend. The dog looks over at me, and I can’t help smiling instantly. He’s a cute little alien of a puppy, with big dark eyes, a doofy grin, and ears that stick out from the sides of his head like a pair of bat wings.
“That’s a greyhound mix,” Amy says. “He’ll be a small to medium size when he’s fully grown, not too much bigger than he is now, but he’ll require a commitment to exercise. As in, he’ll need a lot of walking, and a lot of attention. They’re running dogs. It’s in their nature.”
“There’s a huge dog park a few blocks away from our place,” Luka says. “We could take him every day.”
My jaw drops. “Are you sure…?” I ask.
Amy smiles. “I’m sure Mr. Kibbles would love that.”
The dog’s gaze jumps to Amy the second she says his name.
Now it’s Luka’s turn to look surprised. “Mr.…Kibbles?” The dog looks back at Luka.
“Yes, that’s what we call him.”
Luka looks at me, his smile fading. The press utters some ooohs and ahhhs. “What do you think, Brooklyn? The choice is ultimately yours, of course.”
“What do you say, pupper?” I ask Mr. Kibbles. “You wanna come home with us?”
Maybe it’s just the high pitch of my voice, but he scrambles out of Luka’s lap and climbs up on me, wagging his tail like crazy as he attacks my face with slobbery kisses.
I laugh as I hold him back, planting a kiss on the top of his soft, gray head. “I love Mr. Kibbles. I think he’s the one!”
Each time someone says his name, the puppy snaps to attention. It’s clear he’s familiar with his moniker. We make a little show of playing with the dog, but it’s clear to me that Luka isn’t petting the puppy and tossing it a ball just for the media. He actually seems to be enjoying himself. Finally, the press leaves. We’re alone while Amy gets some paperwork for us to fill out.
“The thing is, I refuse to own a dog named Mr. Kibbles,” Luka asserts.
The dog looks up at him, waiting expectantly. I wonder if this is my husband’s way of trying not to form a bond with the dog.
“Too bad,” I say. “This is the name he knows. Besides, he’s already got so much to adjust to, with a new home and new owners.”
He frowns. “My dog needs a real name. Mr. Kibbles is ridiculous.”
The dog cocks an ear, and I suppress a grin.
“Well, maybehedoesn’t like the name ‘Luka.’”
He scowls, but I can see his mouth twitching. “Fine, then I’m calling him Kib.”
When we leave, Luka makes a big deal out of buckling the dog carrier into the back seat, asking Mr. Kibbles if he’s okay, and glancing nervously over his shoulder every few minutes the whole way home. It’s adorable.
When we get up to the apartment, we find that Stefan sent over all the supplies we might need, including a crate, toys, a collar, dog bowls, and a variety of dog food.
“Wow. He thought of everything,” I murmur. “We should send a thank-you card.”
Luka just grunts, deposits the dog in the crate immediately, and shuts himself up in his office, leaving me to take care of potty time and Kib’s grand tour of his new home.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I hear the dog whine urgently as he bangs against the side of his kennel. It’s the third time since we put him to bed. If this is anything like having an actual baby, I don’t know how parents stay sane. Yawning, I throw on my robe and pull my hair into a ponytail. It’s quiet when I walk into the living room.
Soft city light flows in through the windows, casting a glow over my husband as he lies stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, a book forgotten beside him.
