Page 15 of Heartstring

“How do you know all this?”

“Because I volunteer at the animal sanctuary.”

“You’ve been here a week, and you’ve already found a job?”

“It’s not ajobjob. I just volunteer there. Doctor Micah Sawyer is awesome with the animals, and you should see his husband.” He rolls his eyes, doing a chef’s kiss.

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard of them. It still doesn’t explain what Stan is doing here.”

At my mentioning his name, Stan lifts his head to stare at me. I drop him a small piece of bacon. He has the most beautiful brown eyes and dark fur.

“Wait,” I interrupt Seymour before he answers my question, “if you’re volunteering at the shelter, how long are you thinking of staying?”

Seymour looks at me like he’s been slapped.

“Sorry. I…I didn’t mean it that way. You know you can stay here as long as you want, even if you seem hell-bent on destroying my otherwise peaceful living.”

“You mean boring,” he says.

“I mean peaceful.”

“Yeah, sure, if by peaceful you mean eating mostly ready-made meals on the days you don’t bring home food from the soup kitchen like you’re without housing and watching reruns of home-decorating shows.Thatkind of peaceful.”

Fine, it’s boring. But it works for me.

I throw him a fake angry look, and he laughs.

“Anyway, Stan needs a home, and I figured he’d be good for you.”

“Seymour, I can’t have a dog. I’m at the soup kitchen most days, and these dogs need a lot of exercise.”

“Look at him. He already adores you, and you can take him to the soup kitchen. I bet he’d be really popular with people.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “This isn’t how life works, Seymour. I can’t just get a dog.”

“Sure you can, and fuck whoever made the rules. You can have whatever you want.”

I look down at the dog staring back at me. Seymour’s endless source of positivity and energy is something I’ve always loved about him. Porter was a lot more like me. He used to tell me we needed Seymour in our lives to stop us from aging too early.

“You said he has some health issues,” I say.

Seymour stands, taking both our plates to the sink.

“What? Nah. He’s fit as a fiddle. He has a minor condition but nothing serious.”

Before I can demand more details about this condition, Stan gets up from my feet and sits facing me. I scratch his neck. He seems to like it.

Weirdly, he doesn’t take his eyes off me like he’s afraid he’ll misplace me if he turns away.

I help Seymour tidy up while Stan follows me around.

Seymour already got a bowl for Stan’s food and water, so we set those in the kitchen for him. Once again, Stan doesn’t take his eyes off me even while he eats. When I try to go to the living room, he stops eating and follows me, so I have to return to the kitchen with him, or he won’t eat.

“Seymour, what’s wrong with the dog?” I shout to him in the living room.

“Nothing. He’s perfectly imperfect. Just like you and me.”

Well, if that’s not ominous.