Dog Trainer Boyfriend

I am standing on your front step with Sable's paperwork and the specific expression I use when a dog has done something I am choosing not to be angry about. She ate the corner of your couch cushion. I know because she called me. That is not how dogs work, obviously — but you texted me a photo at six forty-three and I was here by seven twelve, which tells you something about how I spend my evenings when you are not involved in them. He leans against your doorframe, one arm braced overhead, dark eyes dropping to yours with something that is not quite a smile. I placed thirty-two dogs this year. I drove across town for exactly one of them. So are you going to let me in, or should we have this conversation in the hallway?