I stick the note to the refrigerator with a magnet, then reread it. On second inspection, I realize that it sounds a little cryptic. All it’s missing is a request for ransom. I grab the pen I used to write the note, and add:Come get him.
I read it again, but it still doesn’t feel right. The short, clipped sentences might make him think that taking care of Bruno is a burden. I’m probably overthinking it, but I add to the note again anyway:What’s his name by the way? I’ve been calling him Bruno.
I put the pen down and head to Bruno’s crate to let him out. I take him downstairs and outside to use the bathroom, but he doesn’t seem to have to go. He must have gone for a walk already. I take him back inside. Joel looks at me once, but doesn’t remark on me having the puppy again.
Bruno is excited to meet the kittens when we reach my apartment. Roland and Phoebe don’t seem to mind his never-ending energy. They play for a little while, and then Bruno stops without warning, lowers his hips, and pees on my floor.
“Bruno!” I exclaim. “No!”
He doesn’t seem to think he’s done anything wrong. As soon as he’s done peeing, he trots away from the mess and rejoins the kittens. I clean the mess, then sit down on the couch and watch the three of them play. Not five minutes later, Bruno squats and poops right on my rug. I’m lucky I bought a special spray for removing pet stains when I adopted the kittens. I haven’t needed to use it until now. With the second mess cleaned up, I return to the couch, relieved that I can relax now because surely this puppy has it all out of his system and won’t be having any more accidents.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Bruno pees on my hardwood floor again, and while I’m cleaning that up, he pees a third time. I groan, then throw his harness and leash back on him and take him outside. We walk up and down the block several times before it’s finally clear that he got it out of his system in my apartment.
“You are going to drive me crazy,” I say to him as we go back inside.
I make him climb the stairs with me again. Last time, the extra exercise didn’t do much to wear him out, but this time, he’s knocked out almost as soon as we get inside. He’s on my lap on the couch, so at least I’m comfortable.
I don’t realize that I’ve drifted off to sleep until I’m startled awake by someone pounding on the door. Roland and Phoebe are curled up and cuddling with each other on the other end of the couch. I take a moment to appreciate how cute they are, and then slide the sleeping puppy off my lap to go answer the door. I already know that it’s Jake. I wonder if he’ll talk to me or if he’ll only say the bare minimum to get his dog back.
He’s leaning on the door frame when I open the door. I’m reminded of the day he came to my door before taking me out to dinner. I remember the way he came through my doorway, pushed me up against the wall, and kissed me. The memory makes my body feel warm. I wish that we could go back to that moment.
“Bruno?” He sounds skeptical of the name. At least I know that he read my note. That, and he’s talking to me again.
I shrug. “Caitlin named him.”
“Of course she did. Where is he?”
“On the couch. What’s his real name?”
I step away from the doorway, hoping that he’ll come in. He hesitates, looking down at the threshold like there’s a physical barrier stopping him from entering my apartment.
“He doesn’t have one,” he says. Then, as if he has to force himself to do it, he steps through my doorway, but pauses in front of me in my hallway. For a moment, he stands so close to me that I think that maybe nothing is wrong and I imagined the last several days. My heart begins to beat a little bit faster. I can see his chest rising as he takes in a deep breath. He doesn’t release it before turning away from me and stepping into the living room.
“How does he not have a name?” I ask.
“I’m only fostering him, and he’s deaf, so it’s not like it matters if he knows his name or not.”
“He’s deaf?” I’m surprised. “Are you sure?”
“That’s why the family that adopted him gave him back to the shelter. They couldn’t handle his nonstop crying, and nothing they did worked. He wouldn’t respond to any of their commands.”
“They didn’t have him long. Maybe he’s just stubborn. Did he have a hearing test?”
“No, but watch this.” He claps his hands. Roland and Phoebe both pop their heads up, but Bruno doesn’t respond. He’s lying on the couch, sleeping soundly.
“That doesn’t mean he’s deaf,” I argue. “Maybe he’s just really tired. He should have a hearing test done.”
“The shelter can’t afford to pay for it, so we’re treating him like he’s deaf. I’m going to foster him until he’s housebroken and knows enough hand signals to be adopted by someone experienced with deaf dogs.”
The way he explains it is so casual that it feels like he’s not mad at me anymore, like he’s letting me into the wall he built when he found out that I lied. I begin to feel my own guard dropping.
“Speaking of housebroken,” I say, “he had four accidents in my apartment today.”
I start to laugh it off, but his face turns serious. Just like that, the wall is back up.
“That’s what happens when you don’t watch him. I’m crate training him for a reason. If you would have just left him up there—”
“I was watching him,” I interrupt. “And if I had left him up there, someone would have called in a noise complaint.”
