Page 62 of Puppy Love

“Would you like some?” Violet asks from the kitchen. I look at the tap water running into her glass. I wonder what microscopic things are floating around in it.

I shake my head, patting the water bottle in my backpack side pocket. “I’m set, thanks.”

I look around her house cautiously, like it’s a sin to get caught doing it. Picture frames decorate the wall above her couch, at least the ones that are left. Most of the wall is bare, small nails poking out where frames used to be. I wonder what they were, and I wonder what she plans to change them to.

“We should feed him,” Violet says.

After locking Reese in her bedroom, we pour the stray a bowl of kibble. We don’t know how long it’s been since he’s eaten, so we do it in sections, placing the food in a ridged feeder so he can’t eat too quickly. Unsurprisingly, he scarfs it down every time.

“Good boy,” Violet says, scratching behind his oily ears. Well, his ear-and-a-half. Then, she makes a face, like she just tasted something sour.

“What?” I ask. She continues scrunching her nose.

“Don’t you smell that?”

“You mean the stray dog we found that looks half-dead? Yeah, I can smell him,” I say.

Violet shakes her head.

“You have to give him a bath.”

I furrow my brows, narrowing my gaze onto her. “What?”

“Cam,” she says, with a very serious look on her face. “He reeks. Please, you have to give him a bath.”

I’ve never been one to give in to other people’s demands, so I’m unsure of how I find myself next to Violet with my knees against her bathroom floor while I run hypoallergenic shampoo through this dog’s half-bare coat. His skin leaves a strange, flaky, oily residue on my hands that just about makes me vomit. I squeeze assholes for a living, but this is so much worse.

The dog shakes, and a brown soapy wave heads our way. I shield us from the blast with a towel that was luckily laying on my lap.

“I think we should name him,” Violet says as we carefully pat him dry.

I look at her earnestly. “That is literally the worst idea. Don’t you know anything about naming a stray?” I ask.

A sly smirk slowly spreads across her face, and she gives me a matter-of-fact look. “I named you.”

Heat rises to my cheeks. I don’t know if it’s out of irritation at the dig or the slight innuendo in her tone. Whichever it is, it’s making the warmth between my thighs pulse.

“I’m thinking Buddy,” she continues.

I scoff, unimpressed.

“Buddy is like, the number one most basic dog name on the planet,” I respond.

“So?”

“So don’t you think he deserves a little better than that, after what he’s been through?”

Violet looks back at the dog, like she’s thinking very deeply about this.

“Buddy is an All-American family dog name. Everyone loves a Buddy.”

“That may be true, but this dog is not a Buddy,” I testify. She’s won enough today.

“Fine, then what’s your suggestion?” Her arms cross over her chest impatiently.

“I don’t have one. I told you naming a stray is a bad idea.”

“But if you had to,” she pleads. “If you had to, what would you name him?”

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