Dog Person
Small flurries of dust drift lazily through the beam of sunlight pouring in from my bedroom window. I stretch wide across my queen-size bed, muscles loosening, when my hand bumps into a wet nose. A warm breath curls around my fingers, familiar and comforting. I turn my head toward the source and find my partner in crime staring back at me. Mimi, my Standard Poodle.
I’ve never been much of a people person, but I’ve always been a dog person. Before Mimi, there were four others. I loved every single one of them like they were my own. Princess, Blacky, Marly, and Bruce. Their furry faces hang in gold picture frames on the wall by my living room window—a quiet, constant reminder of everything they were to me.
I raised them. Trained them. Trusted them with my life. Each one carved out a place in my heart no one else could ever fill. On missions, they were more than companions; they were my eyes, my ears, my instincts when mine weren’t enough.
Bruce once took a silver bullet meant for me. He survived, tough bastard, and now he’s living out a well-earned retirement with a new family off the coast of Maine. One of the lucky ones. Princess was lucky, too. She passed at fifteen, old and peaceful.
Not all of them got that ending. Being a working dog leaves too much room for mistakes. And in my line of work, mistakes cost more than money. I made plenty of them… and I lost Blacky and Marly because of it. That’s the part that never sits right with me. Not the danger, not the missions, but the fact that I never got to repay them for everything they gave me.
Mimi nudges my hand again, pulling me back to the present. She doesn’t mind the danger. Never has. If anything, she seems to embrace it. Always reminding me, usually with wet, unapologetically stinky kisses, that she’ll stick by my side until the very end. I appreciate the loyalty. I really do. But her breath is absolutely terrible.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, pushing her gently off the bed as she tries to climb over me. “What do you want for breakfast?” I ask, tugging my shirt back into place.
Before she can respond in whatever dramatic way she’s about to, my phone dings. The sound cuts through the room, sharp and unwelcome. I drop back onto the bed and reach across for it, dragging it closer by the charging cord. The screen lights up as it recognizes my face. A few quick taps, and I open my messages. There it is. Bold. Simple. Unmistakable.
Report for briefing.
Another mission? Mimi lets out a long, dramatic sigh as she settles beside the bed, her chin resting on her paws.
“Yeah,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “There’s always something.”
She huffs softly, like she has opinions about that, but doesn’t argue. Not out loud, anyway.
With a groan, I push myself to my feet and start getting dressed. Nothing flashy. Nothing that draws attention. Just clean, fitted, forgettable. The kind of outfit people look right past without realizing they’ve seen it. I tie my hair back into a tight ponytail and slip on my prescription sunglasses, the tinted lenses dulling the sharpness of the morning light.
Mimi watches me the whole time, ears twitching at every small movement.
“I know,” I say under my breath, grabbing her leash from the hook by the door. “We’ll grab something on the way.”
Her tail taps once against the cabinet, approval.
