When they left after another drink, the boy vet was still at the bar. I took the seat next to him again.

“See that guy down there?” Cameron said. “Doesn’t he look like a fatter, balder Tony Romo?”

“Listen,” I said. “How old are you really?”

He hunched his shoulders and looked down into his beer.

“I’m thirty-three,” he said. “Like Jesus. Nobody ever believes me.”

“It makes you seem like you’re hiding something.”

“Like my age?”

“It also seems like you’ve dated every woman in town.”

“Heh, dated,” he said. “It can seem that way when they get to talking.”

His voice was thick, and he rocked steadily on his stool—thunk, thunk-thunk. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Julia: “I know you want another dog and I understand that its important to you I dont want to seem like a jerk not letting you but I really dont think we have space or money for another dog im sorry. Be home after midnight.”

“She really doesn’t want the dog,” I said.

“Aw, tie a fucking bow around its neck. Call it an early Hanukkah present.”

“I’ve been hearing you’re not so nice to your girlfriends,” I said.

“The fate of old-fashioned men in a world dominated by females.”

I took a big gulp of my beer and processed that.

“Now that the corgi’s fixed up, don’t you think you’ll be able to find someone to take him?” I said.

“I guess so, dude. At this point it’s more about the principle of the thing, don’t you think?”

“Your father teach you that?”

“No, he just made me hateful and dependent. At least I’ll inherit the practice when he dies.”

I paused, gave him a chance to correct the record, or whatever it was, then let it go.

“It’s not going to be worth much if you alienate all your clients,” I said.

“I’m a good vet. Say what you want about my quote unquote character. I bring little creatures back to life. And they know I’m good at it, too. Your goddamn dog nearly bit my assistant’s hand off, and she’s the nicest person I know. But she’ll never be a vet. The dogs know she’s a hack.”

I wasn’t quite convinced by this. But it was past ten o’clock and I hadn’t had dinner, or fed Kiki. This didn’t bode well for the I’m-responsible-enough-to-take-care-of-two-dogs argument I was planning to make. I put some money down on the bar.

“Look, if you want the dog, tell your girlfriend he’s old and probably won’t last much longer,” he said.

“Is that true?”

“As far as you know.”

It was that ancient, nasty confidence. I could see how he convinced people to sleep with him. I could also see him getting stabbed between the ribs.

When I pulled up to the house, Kiki bolted from the bushes across the street and met the car on her hind legs, front paws scrabbling the air in greeting.