I had started packing lunches because Cooper would not let me leave the apartment in peace otherwise.
And now this stranger had said two words.
Hey, Coop.
And my dog had come apart.
Wade must have seen something on my face.
“I’m not here to take him.”
I looked at him.
“You sure?”
“No.”
That answer caught me off guard.
Wade sighed.
“I want him back.”
Cooper looked between us.
Wade continued before I could say anything.
“But wanting something doesn’t mean you’re entitled to it.”
That was probably the first moment I respected him.
I still didn’t like him.
But I respected him.
“He’s your dog,” Wade said.
“He is.”
“I know.”
The words came out too quickly.
Too defensive.
Wade nodded anyway.
Then he crouched.
He put one hand on Cooper’s shoulder.
“I should get back downstairs.”
Cooper leaned after him when he stood.
Wade’s face broke for half a second.
Then he fixed it.
“Take care of him.”
“I do.”
“I can see that.”
He walked toward the stairs.
Cooper followed two steps.
Then stopped.
He looked back at me.
Then at Wade.
I called him.
Cooper stayed frozen.
And for some stupid reason, that felt like a vote.
Like one of us had to win.
I called him again.
Cooper came to me.
Wade disappeared around the corner.
I shut the apartment door.
Then I locked it.
Then I checked it twice.
Cooper walked to the door and sat down.
I put the sandwich on the counter.
He stared at the hallway.
“Don’t.”
His ears moved.
“You live here.”
He looked at me.
“With me.”
Nothing.
I hated the sound of my own voice.
I sounded like a jealous child.
So I went to the kitchen.
I opened the refrigerator.
There wasn’t much inside.
Half a carton of eggs.
Some cheese.
Leftovers.
Three containers I was pretending qualified as meal preparation.
I closed it.
When I came back, Cooper was still sitting at the door.
I sat beside him.
Neither of us moved for a while.
Finally, I said, “That was him, huh?”
Cooper rested his chin on my knee.
I scratched the gray fur under his collar.
Then I asked the dumbest question I had ever asked a dog.
“Do you want to go with him?”
Cooper sighed.
That was all I got.
The next morning, he didn’t want breakfast.
That scared me.
Cooper had always been careful around food.
But he ate.
He just had rules.
That morning, he stood by the front door.
I showed him my lunch bag.
“See?”
Nothing.
I opened it.
“Sandwich.”
He stared at the door.
“Apple.”
Still the door.
“Granola bar.”
His tail moved once.
“That usually impresses you.”
Nothing.
