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He, usually a very well-behaved walker, lurched forward, pulling his leash out of my grip, barreling down the street, barking like a lunatic.
Now, I held no false beliefs about pitties.
They were only as good as their owners.
Like any other dog.
But I also understood that many—if not most—people still believed in things like breed-specific aggression.
And I was sure it didn't help matters that I was running behind him screaming out Lockjaw! when many people still thought pitties were capable of locking their jaws when they latched onto prey.
Luckily for him—and me—when he reached his lady, he dropped down onto his front legs, butt sky high in the air, tail about to wag off his little body, making low little whimpering noises to the love of his whole darn doggy life.
Lillybean, in true Lillybean fashion, was not nearly as smitten.
But after regaining his leash, apologizing, and finishing our walk with Lillybean and her human servant, he slowly started whittling away at her ice-pup exterior, even getting a lick and tail wiggle—unheard of!—from her.
From then on, they were the best of friends.
And we, the keepers of treats and carriers of potty bags, had little choice but to get to know each other as well as we took long tours around the neighborhood, stopping for sniffs and tree christenings, and even the very occasional hot dog treat. Shared, of course, because they were deeply, deeply in love. Also, Lillybean was too small for a whole one and Lockjaw was far too fat already.
"I see her, buddy," I agreed, deciding to stay where we were, let them come to us. Lillybean liked to keep you waiting. She made a show of stopping to smell every stationary person's shoes before they finally made their way to us. "There's your girl. Hey, Lillybean. Looking spiffy," I told her, smiling at her absolutely absurd hot pink doggie onesie.
"What about me? Do I look spiffy too?" her human asked, making my gaze move up to catch sight of a truly horrific sunglass and Santa-hat-wearing llama on his sweater before my gaze found his.
The man named after the king of Christmas music himself.
The man who took the tradition of over-the-top Christmasing seriously.
Also, my best friend in the whole world.
Crosby.CHAPTER TWOCrosbyShe thought our dogs were in love.
And, in her defense, they were.
Sure, Lillybean put on a good show of indifference, actively ignoring Lock's incessant licking and nudging, tucking her tail and sitting down when he tried to sniff, but I knew my girl well enough to know she was feeling him too. It was in the way she cried when they walked away from us after we all hung out at the dog park, the way her butt nearly wagged off when I asked her if she wanted to go see Lock.
They were a mismatched pair for sure.
A tiny little princess and a hulking beast.
But they worked.
And, well, me and Dea, we worked too.
I wasn't raised to believe in archaic ideas like a 'friend-zone.' Friendships were friendships. It wasn't the girl's fault if you wanted more. She certainly didn't owe it to you.
That said, Dea, well, she had some issues when it came to the opposite sex.
She went to therapy.
She talked to her friends.
She really did manage to come out reasonably unscathed after a somewhat traumatizing childhood with a woman who never loved her like she needed to be loved, who always made it apparent that she loved men more than her own flesh and blood.
But she had this core-deep belief that men, as a whole, only cared about the superficial, never wanted something real, didn't believe in any kind of ever-after.
She dated casually—though very rarely—and even then, refused to let things go past a couple of weeks before she moved on.
I wasn't sure she'd ever actually had any sort of serious relationship.
In fact, I was the only man in her life she had known longer than a few months. Aside from, say, her boss who was like a grandfather to her.
But Dea seemed to have a mental block about the idea of a man who actually did know how to love, who actually could commit to more than a short fling, who genuinely wanted her for who she was as a person, not what she looked like outside.
To be fair, she was a knockout.
I would be lying if I didn't admit that.
It was what you first saw about her.
She had hair that somehow managed to be brunette and blonde all at once, kept long, always shining and smelling like coconut, framing her heart-shaped face with hazel eyes, a petite nose that tipped up ever so slightly at the end, and slightly oversized lips that seemed perpetually curved up in a smile.
She was five feet of love and light and a slightly ridiculous hot pretzel addiction. The woman literally could not walk past a pretzel cart without getting one. Even if she'd just finished one five blocks ago.
