“But you love dogs,” I said, quietly. “You bought biscuits for Lacy. You get on your stomach on the ground and let her lick your face.” The anger had faded from my voice. I felt despondent. “You’re always going to want to keep your things nice. That means you’re never going to want a dog. And that… that makes me sad.”
A subtle change occurred in David’s expression. It took me a moment to translate it – before, he’d been angry at me for pushing too hard; now he was he was angry at me for making him feel bad. I heard a bark – deep, throaty; surely Kayla’s, the plump Golden Retriever with the rust-colored coat and bad knees – and I instinctively looked toward the window. “Fine. I get it,” I said. “You don’t want a dog. I’m not going to force you.”
“Good,” David said. His voice had a hard edge to it, but his eyes had softened.