Ed tears a hunk of Italian bread off the loaf on the table, butters it liberally with the fake spread that Alice buys because it’s supposed to be healthier for them than the margarine she used to use. He doesn’t respond, but she knows he’s thinking. She waits patiently, familiar with the signs of Ed’s thought process. He never voices his internal debates. Finally, just as she’s taken another forkful of spaghetti, he sets his fork down. “What do you want to call him?”

“I don’t know. Something different. I wish we knew what he was called.”

“Then we’d know where he came from.”

“How about Silver? Because of his color.”

“Nah. What about Butch?”

“Never. Carlton?”

“Carlton? Why Carlton?”

“I like the name.”

“Oh no. Not Carlton. I just can’t see me owning a dog named Carlton.”

“Then come up with something.”

Ed just shovels another bite of spaghetti into his mouth. “Buddy. It’s a good name. Watch.” Ed swallows the spaghetti, scrapes his plate with the chunk of bread. “Here, Buddy.”

The dog is by his side in an instant.

“See? Maybe that’s really his name. He comes to it quick.” Ed puts the plate on the kitchen floor. The dog happily licks the plate with a dainty tongue, scouring it for any hint of sauce.

“Ed. I’m shocked at you.” Alice leaves a tiny bit more sauce and a scrap of sausage on her plate. “Okay. Buddy it is.” She takes up Ed’s sparkling plate and gives the dog hers.

“Well, I’m shocked at you. Letting a dog lick your plate. How uncharacteristic.” Ed grabs both now virtually clean plates and sets them into the dishwasher. “I guess if we’re going to keep him, we need to get a license. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Alice is glad that her back is to him. She was expecting an argument. She was prepared for it, loaded, as they say, for bear. Ed has left her with her figurative powder dry and it is all she can do to stop from laughing out loud. “Sounds good.” Alice bends over the dog to stroke his muzzle, to keep her surprised smile from belonging to Ed.

*   *   *

Nothing is ever cut-and-dried. That’s what Ed thinks as he leaves the town clerk’s office without a dog license. Buddy needs proof of a rabies shot before he can get a tag. Now he’s got to find a vet, make an appointment, spend who knows how much, and then, only then, can he get the ten-dollar tag. No wonder people become scofflaws. “What do you say, pal, want to live outside the law?” The dog is more interested in the scents surrounding the trash can outside the town hall.