Page 80 of What You Wish For

“Where’s all your stuff?” I asked.

“Back bedroom,” he said, waving. “In boxes.”

Next, Chuck Norris tried to jump up on Duncan, but I blocked him.

“I just have to make myself ignore him,” Duncan said, as we kept shuffling. “No human affection,” he said, like he was reminding himself.

I knew Duncan wasn’t denying that dog human affection. I spied him throwing toys for him in the courtyard all the time. Not that I was watching.

“But he’s so fluffy and cute,” I protested.

“Exactly,” Duncan said. “He controls your mind with his cuteness. He stares at you with those big doggie eyes until you do his bidding.”

We’d worked our way back toward his bedroom. I leaned Duncan against the bed, and he perched there for a minute. When Chuck Norrissaw Duncan sit, he settled down in the corner, watching us, eyes bright, front paws crossed.

“See that?” Duncan whispered. “He’s doing it right now.”

“I’ll be in charge of Chuck Norris tonight,” I said. “You be in charge of resting.”

Later, I’d take Chuck Norris to the beach and throw his toy for him, and get him fresh water, and fill his food bowl. But right now, I needed to get Duncan settled.

“Okay,” I said, looking around. “The nurse wants you out of that suit. What were you doing wearing a suit to surgery, anyway?”

Duncan shrugged. “Respect for the occasion.”

“Wait here.”

I located his dresser, looking for soft sweatpants. I found a drawer of T-shirts. I might have expected all neatly folded, identical, heather-gray ones—to match his suits—but, instead, I found colors and jokes: A green tee with a hedgehog on it that said, HEDGE OR HOG?YOU DECIDE. A blue shirt with a logo that said, TAUTOLOGY CLUB: IT IS WHAT IT IS. A shirt with a picture of Bill Murray’s face that read, DON’T MESS WITH ME, PORK CHOP.

Shirts belonging—clearly—to the former Duncan.

I pulled out an extra-soft red one with an image of a hammer that read, THIS IS NOT A DRILL. Then I kept rummaging for the sweatpants.

Duncan waited obediently, legs bent, eyes closed.

I set the folded clothes on his lap.

“Can you handle this on your own, buddy?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. Sure,” he said. He gave me a thumbs-up. “I got it.”

But when he stood up and bent over to take off a shoe, he lost his balance, fell—on his right side, fortunately—and hit the floor with awhomp.

“Whoa!” I said, squatting down after him, just as Chuck Norris decided to come over to see what the ruckus was.

“Whoa is right,” he said, as I leaned in to hook my arms under him and hoist him back up.

He was not light.

“Lift with the legs,” he called out.

“You could help,” I said.

At that, Duncan got his feet under him, and shoved us upward with a burst that sent us reeling sideways against the bed until we fell back on it.

He landed on top of me.

Again. Just like on the beach.

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