I know I must seem like the most boring person to the world as I pull up in front of my little white house, a newer construction I bought partly because I know the builder and their safety record. But as she parks and takes that first step up my concrete walkway, I feel like I just won the Super Bowl.

“Now, don’t judge,” I tell her as I pause, my key in the deadbolt. “You know, how I live.”

“What? Do you live like a frat boy with just a black leather couch and a big screen set up on boxes?” Zoey teases.

I feign offense as I peek in the window too high on the door for her to see in, as if I’m surveying the damage. “How’d you know?” But at her horrified expression, I can’t help but laugh. “Not anymore, but once upon a time . . .” I shake my head sadly, putting a hand to my chest in faux mourning. “Those were the days.”

Zoey pushes on my chest, scolding and flirting at the same time. Does she even know that she’s doing that? She pulls me in and pushes me away, verbally and physically, at every turn.

But fuck if I don’t enjoy it.

“I meant Chunky. I told you he adopted me, and that’s true, but it hasn’t been long, and his diet isn’t working as fast as I’d hoped.” I whisper the word ‘diet’ knowing that Chunky hates the very idea of it.

“Diet?” Zoey echoes at normal volume.

“Shh, he’ll hear you and get a complex. He’s very sensitive.”

Zoey’s smile is full-wattage with humor. “Your dog, who is named Chunky, supposedly because of peanut butter, is on a diet and sensitive about it?”

“Down seven pounds in six months,” I report proudly.

She seems as ready as she’s gonna be, so I open the door and am almost immediately knocked to my ass by Chunky, who Superman leaps at me joyfully, all four of his doggy feet a solid twenty-four inches off the floor.

Used to this flying canine greeting, I drop to one knee to catch him in my arms and turn my face away so his messy, sloppy kisses hit my cheek and not my mouth because he’s a French kisser if given the opportunity. “Who’s a good boy? That’s right, you are, Chunka-Chunka-Burning-Love. You’re my good boy,” I tell my squirming, slobbery dog as I scratch and pet him all over.

Just as fast as the greeting started, it’s over, and he hops from my arms to run out into the yard. Squatting to pee—I know, he should hike a leg, but I’m working with him where he’s at—Chunky finally notices that it’s not just him and me, and he gives Zoey an interested and hopeful look.