“Well, he’s alive,” said the vet, rasping like late Eastwood. “He lost a back leg but I think he’ll be all right.”

This was a win: who could say no to a three-legged dog?

“How much did it cost?”

“I gave you a discount, actually,” he said. “My dad and I settled on an even grand. It helped that you were willing to pay more.”

“I appreciate it, man,” I said. “When can I take him home?”

“We’re going to keep him here tonight, but he should be good by tomorrow.”

I thanked him again and hung up. I watched Kiki out the window and wondered whether she would get along with her new playmate. She was awfully moody and disobedient. But maybe all she needed was a friend?

I texted Julia: “lets talk when you can. a great dog can be ours but only if you are OK with it I hope you are love you.” She wasn’t supposed to get off of her emergency medicine shift until midnight and she was probably pretty busy until then, but I hoped she’d see the text while suturing a gashed anterior crucifixurade or whatever and start turning the idea over in her sleep-deprived brain. I stared at my phone for an hour but she didn’t write back. Kiki brought me a pair of Julia’s underwear and I put them on the kitchen table with the socks and bras and other underwear she’d found. Then she settled at my feet with a heavy sigh.

When it had been dark for a while, I drove to a shadowy, expensive bar across town to drink with Saul and Liz. They lived in a vacuumed condo with leather sofas and good cable. They worked real jobs—Saul raised money for the university and Liz worked in the front office of the repertory theater—so they deserved their happy hour, and since they invited me to share it, I sort of deserved it, too.

I slunk into the dim light and there, at the bar, was the boy vet, drinking a beer by himself. I didn’t see my friends, so I took the seat next to him.

“Out to celebrate new fatherhood?” he said.

“I’m fairly worried Julia’s not going to be happy about this,” I said.

“Unilateral decision, eh? Been there, done that.”

I surveyed the taps and ordered a beer with a full sentence for a name from Elyse the bartender.

“I didn’t know you were friends with Cameron,” she said.

“Didn’t even know that was his name,” I said. “I just call him Dr. Dog.”

“We don’t ID him,” Elyse said. “If you can save the little pussums, you can drink at Red’s.”

“I’m twenty-three,” he said.

“Good for you,” I said.