Toby

The ugliest, hungriest-looking thing I ever saw was standing there blocking my way, growling low like he was thinking, “Mmmmm, this looks delicious.”

I looked around. “Help,” I said, not very loud. “Somebody?”

They were probably all watching through their curtains, smiling, nodding their bony heads.

I told him, “I don’t even belong here, okay? I was just leaving,” and took a step backwards.

He took a step forwards.

I apologized. I told him I wasn’t leaving. “Why would I want to? I like you. I wish you were my dog. I’m serious.”

He didn’t believe me, you could tell.

I kept at it. “I would call you ‘Buster’. We’d be friends: I would throw things and you would bring them back in your mouth, that’s called ‘fetching,’ you would fetch for me.”

He took another step, still growling.

“Or I would fetch for you,” I said, stepping back.

He kept coming.

“Jesus loves you, Buster!”

He stopped, and cocked his head.