“It’s an artistic choice.”

And yeah. It helps that she’s an excellent foot warmer in winter.

“You forgot the fire hydrant.”

“We’re keeping him,” she said. Not a question.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I got scared. That’s my problem. Not yours.”

The time she brought me a rock she found on the beach—a smooth, gray thing—and placed it in my palm like it was a diamond. “For you,” she said. “Because it reminded me of your eyes.”

The first time I saw her, she was chasing her own tail in the park. Not in a frantic, confused way—but playfully, like it was a game she’d invented just for herself. I was twenty-three, fresh out of a relationship that had felt like a locked kennel, and I’d come to the off-leash area to sketch. Instead, I watched her spin, laugh, tumble onto the grass, and then spring up again, ears flopping.

“It’s a mistake.” She grinned, and I saw her canine teeth—just a little sharper than mine. “I’m Maya. I’m very opinionated, I love sticks more than is reasonable, and I will protect you from squirrels. Fair warning.” We started meeting at the park every Thursday. Then Tuesdays and Thursdays. Then every day I could manage. Maya worked at a doggy daycare—obviously—and she had this way of making you feel like the most interesting person in the world. When she listened, her ears angled toward you. When she was excited about something, her whole body vibrated.

She beamed. Then she dropped to her knees and let the puppy lick her nose, and I sat down on the floor with both of them, and for a long time, nobody said anything at all.