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The sky is rife with the rare flakes of winter and your breath snakes out in a thin cloud. You’re wearing a light sweater, almost surprised to see everyone else out in a heavy coat and gloves. While you’re becoming accustomed to the Texas heat, it’s still shocking that winter’s nethermost temperatures barely reach the freezing point of water.
Near the end of your journey home, you stop at an unmarked cardboard box. It’s next to the sidewalk and you bend down in front of it and pull your bag off your shoulder. People start to weave around you to continue on, throwing odd looks your way. You flip open the top of the box, and the classical trope is fulfilled when you spot a brown ball at the bottom. The ball unrolls as it awakes and pops up at you, barking.
“Oh no, you’re just too cute,” you squeak when you pick the dirty mutt off the ground. He (or she?) snaps at your fingers playfully and roils in your hands. It jostles about and stretches up towards your face, getting in a lick on your cheek.
“Ahh! No, I’ve got to have you,” you coo at it. You stand up and bounce from foot to foot, holding the small puppy in your arms like a baby. It still squirms and you try to calm it as you practically skip the rest of your walk home. It barks and you jump, mildly surprised. “Calm down!” you wag your finger at it and it snaps at it.
“I can see you’re going to be a difficult one,” you laugh, tickling its belly with your free hand. It’s actually quite dirty so you stop, wanting to give it a bath before you get filthy yourself. Despite this, it snags one of your fingers between its teeth playfully. You dislodge your finger and pick up the grocery bag with your newly freed hand.
You finish up the brisk walk with the puppy cradled in your arms. You bustle in the front door and hustle to the kitchen. You twist the handle for the hot water from the faucet on and shrug the grocery bag off your shoulder onto the table.
“Hey! Did you get all the groceries?”
You jump. Shit. You forgot about Michael.
“Yeah!” you call back. His voice echoed down the hall from the bathroom, so you figured you had a few seconds. You bend down next to a cabinet you know is empty and place the puppy gingerly inside. It whines.
“Shhh,” you whisper, bringing a finger to your lips. You close the door and shoot to your feet right as Michael comes into the kitchen.
He stares at you for a few seconds, noting your quick movement the moment previous and the faucet running hot, and his eyes narrow. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” you say a little too fast. He’s still staring at you skeptically before he shrugs and moves over to the bag on the table.
“It just better not be a prank or some shit,” he mutters, back turned to you and picking up a few packs of food to put in the freezer. You wash your hands and turn the faucet off, praying that the dog doesn’t make any noise. And hoping that it’s alright in the cabinet by itself.
You sidle up next to him and grab a few groceries to help him put them away. The two of you put the few groceries you obtained away silently, before Michael gets a box of cereal and tries to place it on top of the refrigerator. He’s having trouble and you snatch the box out of his hand and do it for him. You don’t have much of a lead in terms of height, but you’re lanky enough for your arms to reach farther.
He scrunches his face at you and lets loose a “jackass” before you lean down to kiss his cheek. His face burns up red and you giggle, resting your forehead against his. And a small whine promptly followed your giggling.
You both freeze and Michael leans back. “What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say again, trying to laugh it off. He tries to move around you and you move in front of him to block his way.
“Gavin,” he warns you, a threat barbed in his tone. Michael slides past you and you try to grab his arm but he slips out of your grip. He walks in front of the cabinets and you follow nervously, knowing the outcome.
He bends down and starts to open random doors until his hand is on the correct one. You put your hand on top of it. “It’s okay, Michael, I’ll take care of it,” you hurry out. He just stares at you with one eyebrow raised and an unimpressed look about him. He pulls it open despite your protests and is assaulted by a brown blur and a small bark.
“What is this?” He examines it, pulling it from his chest. “A dog, Gavin.”
“It’s a puppy!” you correct.
“A puppy is a damn dog,” he asserts, annoyed.
“It’s my damn puppy.” You purse your lips and reach for it. He leans away from you and puts the dog just out of your reach.
“Michael!” you whine.
“We’ve got to wash this thing, can’t have you messing with it right now.” Michael pats its stomach. “And feeding and watering it wouldn’t be a bad idea either.” He stands up and starts to run the water again. He looks at the dish soap that’s out and shakes his head. “Go get your shampoo, Gavin.”
You run towards the bathroom quickly, a small smile on your face. How could you have doubted Michael? You return with the shampoo, skidding on the wooden floor to a halt and hold it out to Michael. He doesn’t take it, because he happens to be struggling with the puppy while it squirmed.
He gets ahold of it with one hand and tests the water with the other, checking temperature. A small frown is on his face, his eyebrows twitched into a line of concentration. Your smile gets bigger when you see he’s taking it seriously. Michael places the dog under the water and gets to washing it.
“Give me a hand, Gavin!” And you jump quickly to help him out; Rage Quit fervor was getting in his voice and you didn’t want him to fall down that chasm of screaming and cussing right now. You hold the puppy down while he grabs the shampoo. After a few seconds, you two fall into a rhythm and the brown thing resists at a lesser intensity.
You breath in, sparks dancing in your stomach when his water slicked arms slid against yours. You were used to it by now, but domestic moments like this served to remind that you two lived and were together. You sigh contently.
The moment doesn’t last long before Michael sticks you under the limelight again. “Do you even have any food for this thing?” he asks. “What gender is it even?” A look of confusion crossed his face.
You tilt your mouth in a diagonal line and dip one of your eyebrows, mirroring his own expression of confusion and shrug.
“What? No food even?” He pushes the faucet away from the dog for a moment and picks it up by its torso. He looks on its underside and nods before returning to washing it. “It’s a girl.”
The water shifts from brown to light brown to clear soon enough and you’re sitting down drying the dog off and putting cool water in a shallow bowl. The dog laps it up and you and Michael stare down at it. He turns from you and walks from the kitchen into the living room. You start to follow before you remember the dog. No leaving it alone.
You hear a few taps of a keyboard, telling you that Michael’s on his laptop. A few moments pass and you hear him call, “Give it some chicken and apples.”
You scrunch your nose up. “Those are gross together!” you complain.
“Yeah, well we’re feeding a dog and not you. Though I have to admit I get confused sometimes.”
You frown and mutter a response, unknown to him and to you, pulling another bowl out and getting the requested food. The puppy stops lapping at the water and it- no, she- bounces around and against your legs, looking significantly healthier. You finish putting the bowl together and place it on the ground, next to the newly dubbed water dish. She rushes to it and sniffs the food before experimentally chewing it.
You watch for a few seconds before you feel an arm around your waist. You flush in surprise and try to turn around to him, but he exerts some strength in resistance to your movement and you let him lean against you, chin on your shoulder. He’s shorter than you, but not enough to deter him from holding you like he isn’t.
You’re both looking at the dog in silence. Or at least you are, and you assume he is as well. “What were you doing hiding it from me?” he asks in a quiet tone.
You panic for a second, hoping he won’t think you’re silly. “I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it,” you mutter defensively.
“That’s silly.” You sigh internally. “But you are going to be scooping the poop.”
You’re scrunching your face up in mild disgust and he laughs because he knows you are. And you listen to it, letting it scrub away your anxiety over his reaction. As the dog finishes, she twists her body to hop at your feet and you lean over to pluck her up in your arms. You face Michael and he places his hand on the dog and pets it affectionately.
And its a moment of calm. A happy picture and the name of the dog just pops into your head. You suggest it to Michael and he nods, surprised that you came up with a name that wasn’t half-bad. There’s a small smile on his lips and you’re glad that it’s there.