“You agree, don’t you?” I say, and his tail wags. I sit down on the rug next to him and pet his little head. “You’ve played by everyone else’s rules, too, and they weren’t very nice, were they? Maybe it’s time we make our own rules.”

I stop and stare at the handsome Lab.

“I can’t call you ‘dog’ or ‘he’ or ‘you’ forever, can I?” I say to the sleeping dog. Then I catch myself and think, Don’t, Adie Lou. Don’t name it. Don’t get attached.

The last of the afternoon’s light is filtering through the windows and onto the dog’s clean coat. It is as yellow and sunny as the day. The spot in which he has picked to lie is warm and bright. I look up, and the sun is illuminating the Cottage Rules sign hanging over where the dog is sleeping.

Rule #2 is spotlighted.

Soak Up the Sun!

I shake my head and laugh.

“Of course,” I say, as if this whole thing has been predestined and the choice of names—just like Kruger—has been obvious the whole time. “Your name is Sonny.”

Part Three

Rule #3:

Nap Often

SEVEN

I awake with the uncomfortable feeling someone is staring at me. There is: Sonny. He is standing over me, looking down on me with the most intense gaze.

“No man has looked at me like that in a long time,” I say to Sonny. “And you only have one eye.”

He licks my face, his tail wagging so hard it makes the curtains on the nearby window flutter.

“All you went through,” I say to him, “and somehow you’re still able to forgive and embrace the day.”

I give Sonny a kiss on the head and get out of bed, a shiver overtaking my body. I glance out the window and see light snow falling. The world is clean, covered in a new coat of white paint, and I listen to the house creak in the wind. Sonny barks, hops off the bed in a courageous leap and runs up to me, jumping on my legs.

“Hold on,” I say, understanding already that’s his signal to go potty. “Me first.”

When I walk back into the bedroom, Sonny is hiding in the corner.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

He hides his face under his paws and shivers, and that’s when I see a little wet mark on the rug. “It’s okay,” I say, immediately heading back into the bathroom for a washcloth and a towel. “Come here.”

Sonny nervously walks toward me and flinches, and I can now see his past horrors reemerging. “No, sweetie,” I sing. “It’s okay. My fault. I should have taken you out first. We’ll learn together, okay?”