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Just as fast as the greeting started, it’s over, and he hops from my arms to run out into the yard. Squatting to pee—I know, he should hike a leg, but I’m working with him where he’s at—Chunky finally notices that it’s not just him and me, and he gives Zoey an interested and hopeful look.
“No,” I tell him, pointing a finger his way, “she won’t feed you either. I’m all you’ve got, man.” I stare at Chunky, knowing he won’t get my words, but when I cross my arms over my chest, he gets the point. If he had hair, I swear he’d flip it as he turns to dismissively strut away and sniff around the fenced-in front yard. I just shake my head. “Drama king.”
Looking over my shoulder, I finally have a chance to look at Zoey, who is grinning like a loon behind her fisted hand, which is doing absolutely no good at hiding her amusement.
“I said ‘don’t judge!’,” I mock-growl.
She laughs out loud now. “No, you said not to judge Chunky. I’m not. He’s adorable, and yeah, chunky as a well-fed tick. But I’m totally judging you.” She points a finger my way, smiling. “Because that was freaking adorable. You most definitely are a dog person, Mr. Hale.”
I give her a shrug of concession. She’s got me nailed. “Of course, I am. Cats are weird. All the attitude and shenanigans.” I curl my hands into claws and give my best cat impersonation. “Hisssss.”
Zoey laughs and leans to get away from my pretend cat scratches, but I catch her in my arms.
Time stops and our eyes lock.
She licks her lips, and I’m this close to kissing her when Chunky, that four-legged cockblocker, comes barreling past us back into the house, loudly demanding his dinner now that he’s done checking the yard for squirrely intruders.
I set Zoey back right on her feet, feeling every inch of her body separate from mine and hating it.
Seeing Chunky sitting by his food bowl, with one paw inside the dish making it stand up vertically to show how empty it is, she clears her throat. “Ahem, guess that’s your cue.”
I sigh, knowing I spoil my damn dog. “Chunky, you’re getting nothing but kibble tonight, man,” I threaten, knowing I’ll give him the specially prescribed diet food I buy at the vet’s office, same as always. “Come on in.”
I focus on putting Chunky’s food in his bowl, stirring it around with his special fork, and acting like I’m putting seasoning and spices in it. I even pop it in the microwave for a second and push the buttons, but don’t actually turn it on because it’ll spark the metal bowl.
“Ooh, this is gonna be so good, Chunkster,” I tell him, and he pants in excitement, his tail thumping against the floor. I swear, if this dog could control the TV, he’d watch Food Network all day while I was gone. Okay, fine . . . I do sometimes turn it on for him. He likes it!
“Are you pretending to heat up his food?” Zoey asks, and when I look over, she’s got that big smile stretching her lips again.
“Yeah, he’s picky.” I don’t offer any more explanation because I know I already seem a bit crazy, and it’s saying something when a ‘crazy’ recognizes you as one of their own.
Not that Zoey’s crazy. Or that I am.
But . . . yeah, we might be. A little. Isn’t everyone?
I set Chunky’s bowl down, and he digs in, slurping and snorting every bit of it down in minutes. Honestly, he might actually inhale some of it. Hopefully, he’ll soon learn that no one’s going to take his food away and he can slow down and enjoy it. But today is not that day.
“Good job. Go clean your face.” This is the one trick I’m thrilled to have taught him, not because it’s all that showy and flashy but because it’s useful.
Chunky goes over to a hook on the cabinet, bites down on the towel hanging there, and then throws it to the floor. He then wipes his face, and any wayward dog food, picks up the towel, and carries it off to the laundry room to drop it by the washing machine. “Oh, yeah, who’s a pretty boy now, all fed and cleaned up?”
Chunky sits and pants again, almost smiling as if he knows I’m talking to him. Meanwhile, I wash my hands, avoiding Zoey’s eyes. She’s watching the whole scene unfold seemingly comfortably, which surprises me. I figured she’d be freaking out six ways to Sunday just being in my house. It’s a big step for her. One she sees as risky even if I have no intention of rushing her into something she’s not ready for.
Even if it kills me and my dick, which is damn near rock hard and standing at attention now that I see Zoey in my place.
