Page 3

Morgan

"Weave!" I call out, and Spookie attacks the agility course like he was born for it. For a German Shepherd who once wouldn't let anyone near him, his precision now is nothing short of miraculous.

"Perfect form, buddy. Just like that."

His ears perk at my voice, but he maintains his focus. That's our thing—absolute trust, complete connection.

He's come a long way from that terrified puppy I found two Halloweens ago, curled up against his mother's body behind Miller's Gas Station.

The poor thing had refused to leave her side after she'd been hit by a car, snarling at anyone who approached.

It had taken half a night of sitting in the rain, tossing bits of hot dog closer and closer, before he'd finally trusted me enough to come close.

Now he's my shadow, my partner, my Emotional Support Animal—everything a dog should be and more.

"Seriously?" Amanda's voice cuts through the dawn. "It's not even seven. Please tell me you're not out here because of Hot Lawyer Guy."

"I'm training for the competition."

"At dawn? After running out on a perfectly good date?"

"He said dogs belong outside."

"Ah." Amanda settles on our client bench, coffee in hand, then shifts like something pinched. She frowns at the seat. "This bench is personally attacking me."

"Everything feels like an attack after thirty."

"I'm twenty-six. And younger than you."

"By four months."

"Still counts." She takes a sip of coffee. "Anyway—I get it. A man not getting your dog thing? Worse than forgetting your name mid-hookup. Death sentence.”

"Like your gastro guy was any better."

"At least I stayed for dessert."

"Only because he was paying."

"True." Another sip. "But why are we discussing my tragic love life when you're the one who bailed on a man who makes seven figures?"

“What do I care how much he makes if he doesn’t share what’s important to me?”

“Good point.”

“Plus—I already have someone loyal, emotionally consistent, and great in bed—”

Spookie barks right on cue.

“—kidding. Mostly. But seriously? Dogs don’t lie about their intentions.” I guide Spookie through a figure-eight. “Or try to mansplain proper pet care to a veterinarian.”

“True.”

“Come on, Spookie, let’s take a break and rest a bit with Aunt Amanda.”

We settle beside her, and she immediately starts scratching his ears like it’s her full-time job. Then, without missing a beat, she keeps going.

“But I’m thinking… maybe when you meet a man, you’re unconsciously trying to find reasons why he’s not the one. Or why you can’t trust him. You know, because that’s what you already believe about men. Just saying.”

“So now you’re a psychologist?”

“You’re joking, but did you know I debated between psychology and vet school?”

“I didn’t know that.”

Spookie flops over with his head in Amanda’s lap, tail wagging as she croons to him in that ridiculous sing-song tone, “Who’s a good boy? You are so ugly, and so stupid, but you’re such a good boy—and we love you.”

“Hey,” I protest. “Don’t call him ugly or stupid.”

“Relax. Dogs don’t judge words—they trust actions. He’s smart enough to know that what matters is how I treat him.” She turns back to Spookie. “Right, boy? Who feeds you when Mama’s busy? Who pets you? Because you’re such a good boy.”

“Okay, fine. You can tell him whatever you want—as long as you keep caring for him when I’m not around. You know he’s my perfect companion.”

“Yeah. But you can’t marry him.”

“Watch me.”

"The state of Tennessee might have something to say about that." Amanda leans forward. "Speaking of the state of Tennessee, have you seen the prize money for Bark & Bond doubled?"

"Doubled?" I signal Spookie to pause. "When?"

"Last night. Some corporate sponsor. First prize is now fifty grand."

My heart kicks against my ribs. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Exactly what we need for that mobile clinic van, right?"

I unclip the collapsible bowl from Spookie’s leash and fill it from the outdoor spigot, trying to keep my voice steady.. "How did you know about—"

"Please. You've been hoarding those dealer brochures like porn." She waggles her eyebrows. "I saw the specs. Very sexy. All those custom medical cabinets."

"The Ford Transit's perfect for rural routes." I can't help myself. "With the right modifications—"

"We could reach all those backwoods calls. Stop putting down animals just because their owners can't make the drive to Nashville." Amanda's voice softens. "Like that mama dog last month."

My chest tightens. "Yeah."

"Which is exactly why you're going to win." She stands, stretches.

As she reaches for her cup, I catch the scratch on her wrist—same one from that calico on Monday. Still angry-looking. "That thing's still healing?"

Amanda glances at it. "Guess I suck at scabbing."

"That’s not normal. You should get it checked out."

She rolls her eyes. "We are not pivoting to my immune system just because you’re emotionally allergic to praise. Stay focused."

I raise my hands in surrender. "Fine. But if your hand falls off mid-surgery, don’t come crying to me."

Amanda scoffs, brushing me off with a flick of her fingers. "Anyway, like I was saying before you diagnosed me with terminal drama—you’re going to win, because you and Spookie? Total mind-meld. It’s actually disturbing."

"Says the woman who talks to her coffee mug."

"Hey, Fernando understands me."

"You named your coffee mug Fernando?"

"Better than naming my vibrator Spencer."

"That was one time!" But I'm laughing, and Spookie's tail is wagging, and this is why Amanda's my best friend. She always knows how to pull me back from the edge.

"First appointment's in twenty," she says, heading for the clinic. "Want to grab breakfast after? I heard the diner has a new waiter who—"

"Game fucking on, Amanda."

"What?"

"The competition. The van. Everything." I gather our training gear. "No more distractions. No more blind dates. No more trying to fix my love life."

"Can't blame a girl for trying." She opens the clinic door, then pauses. "Hey, Morg?"

"Yeah?"

"The van thing? It's brilliant. You're brilliant. But you're allowed to want other things too, you know?"

I watch her disappear into the clinic, feeling Spookie's warm presence against my leg.

She's right about one thing—I do want things.

I want to never again get a midnight call about a dying animal and know I can't reach them in time.

I want to sleep through the night without remembering every dog we couldn't save.

"Ready to win this thing, buddy?"

Spookie's tail wags once, decisive. That's another thing about dogs—they don't hesitate. They don't play games. When they're in, they're all in. I wish I found a man that’s like a dog.

"One more run," I tell him, setting up the course again. "Then we'll—"

My phone buzzes.

Hot Lawyer Guy : Sorry about last night. Maybe we could try again? Promise not to mention dogs.

I delete the message without responding. Some things aren't worth a second chance.

"Focus!" I call to Spookie, and he snaps to attention, eyes locked on mine. "Let's show them what real partnership looks like."

He launches into the course, a black and tan blur of perfect form and absolute trust.

In a week, we'll be in Nashville, competing against the best. But they don't stand a chance. Because while they're doing this for ribbons or glory or whatever, Spookie and I? We're doing this for something real. Something that matters.

"Good boy," I whisper as he nails the final turn. "Perfect boy."

Some people might think it's sad, choosing dogs over men. But dogs… dogs don’t bullshit you. And dogs stay. When everything falls apart, they're right there beside you, steady and sure.

"Morgan!" Amanda's voice carries across the lawn. "Your seven-thirty is here!"

"Coming!" I clip Spookie's leash, more out of habit than necessity. He never strays far. "Ready to save some lives?"

His tail wags again. All in. No hesitation.

Just like always.