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“There was a label on it, but it fell off at some point, and I think it said it was from Alice.”

And there’s my cue.

I walk into the room, and Owen freezes.

Owen

Alice comes striding into the living room with a small, scruffy dog nestled in her arms.

“Merry Christmas,” she sings as she places the dog on the floor by my feet.

My heart skips a beat. No, scrap that. My heart stops.

What the hell?

He’s tiny, with bedraggled fur in tan and gold, large dark eyes that are framed by his wild hair, and the cutest button nose I’ve ever seen.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask as I lower myself and stroke him without even thinking about it. “What is this?”

“It’s a dog, Uncle Owen,” Dana points out sarcastically as she comes over to pet the dog.

“Yeah, a dog, silly,” Darcy joins in.

“But what… who?” I look at Alice, then Smithy, then Romana, but they’re all just smiling at me with these insane grins that make me feel like this is some kind of weird twilight moment until Alice bends down to join me.

“He’s a rescue. Not sure what breed. Maybe a bit of everything, and the shelter wasn’t sure. He’s four years old and needed a home, so I thought, what better place than your house?” She beams at me, and I want to hug her, kiss her, and kill her all at the same time because I had no idea about this.

None at all.

And there’s part of me that’s hyperventilating because this isn’t planned. I haven’t prepared for this. You can’t just go from having no dog to having a dog.

“I can see you’re panicking,” Alice says quickly as she settles next to me. “But don’t. I have this covered. Your next lot of gifts are all dog-related, and he’s insured and chipped, and also house-trained. There’s just one thing.” She slows her voice.

“What?”

Her face screws up into a look I normally find adorable but is now sending anxiety surging through me. “His name.”

Darcy and Dana start to snigger.

“Because he’s a rescue, he already has a name, and we can’t really change it because he knows it. The shelter said we could try, but I kind of feel bad changing it when he’s used to it.”

“Oh my God, what is it?” I ask, preparing myself for the worst, like Nipple or Rudolph or Lord Farquaad.

Alice puts her hand in her pocket and pulls out a dog biscuit. She holds it out for the dog, and then she says, “Hey, Goober. Sit.”

Goober.

Goddamned Goober.

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.

“Good boy, Goober,” Alice says, laughing as she strokes his head.

“Goober!” Darcy calls, and the dog looks up and wags his tail.

“It means ‘peanut,’” Dana informs me, but I’m too busy holding my head in my hands.

“Goober.” As his name leaves my lips, Goober steps up onto my knee and starts to lick my hand. “Hey there, Goober,” I say, and as I look into his watery eyes, the panic begins to ease. “Nice to meet you.”