Page 19 of Spiced!

“You know what,” I said, “you’re right. I never liked it either.”

I took it down and tossed it in the glove compartment. Mofongo watched this with satisfaction, then sneezed, lost his balance, scrambled back upright, and looked at me as though nothing had happened.

I stifled a laugh to avoid damaging his childlike ego, snatched up my phone, and dialed Benji. As the phone rang, I drove across the massive parking lot to the spaces in front of PetSmart, having suddenly realized that I owned nothing puppy related—no food, no bowl, no crate, no bed.

Mofongo had already neutralized an air freshener and peed on the concept of boundaries.

“I got a puppy,” I said when Benji picked up.

There was silence.

“His name is Mofongo.”

The sound Benji Kwon made was somewhere between a laugh and a spiritual event. I waited it out.

“Shopping list, now,” I said. “Please.”

“Crate, bed, puppy food, not adult food—yes, there’s a difference—two bowls, a collar, a personalized tag with your phone number for when he escapes, a leash, four toys maximum—and because I know you, treats, dental chews, and pee pads.” A pause. “Oh, and wipes.”

“Why wipes?”

“You’ll understand soon,” he said. “Also, which vet did you take him to? The hot one in South Tampa? He’s delicious, from what I’ve heard.”

“Goodbye, Benji.”

“Was he cute? Come on. You have the voice you get when—”

I hung up.

Benji didn’t need to know about the hand-on-arm thing or the way the vet made my insides jumble.

Brendan, I scolded myself. His name is Brendan, not “the vet.”

Mofongo’s whine brought me back to the present. I scooped him up and climbed out of my car. Inside PetSmart, Mofongo produced a gravitational effect on every human within thirty feet. By the food aisle, I had collected four people with opinions about kibble, two children conducting simultaneous petting operations, and one man named Harold who was seventy-something and had owned beagles for four decades.

“That one’s too rich,” Harold said, pointing at my first food selection.

I put back the salmon. Harold nodded like I’d passed some test.

Mofongo spent the rest of our trek down the food aisle trying to climb out of my arms to race toward a rawhide bone display he had decided was his by divine right.

“Those aren’t for you yet,” I told him.

He wiggled and nipped.

“Papi, look at me. You’re the size of a cantaloupe. Your ears are literally bigger than your brain.”

He made a sound that landed somewhere between a bark and a deeply personal grievance, then tilted his head. One enormous ear flopped forward with the motion, and he stared with such concentrated effort that I laughed out loud right there in the aisle.

“He’s trying to understand,” Harold said.

“He looks like he’s taking a dump.”

“Forty years of beagles,” Harold chuckled. “They’re always listening . . . and pooping. You’re not wrong about that.”

Harold walked every aisle with us and was right about everything. At the register, I set Mofongo on the floor, where he promptly sneezed on Harold’s shoes. Harold laughed from the belly, patted me on the shoulder, and said, “You’re going to do great.”

I knew he meant me, not the dog.