Biscuit, day one

There is a dog in the house. Eight months old, some kind of hound situation with ears out of all proportion to the rest of him, found at the shelter off Glendale after Danny had been sending me listings for three weeks with no message attached, just the photo, which is a tactic and he knows it is a tactic. The woman at the shelter said he is good with kids. Unprompted. Neither of us said anything in the car afterwards, and the not-saying took up the entire drive home. He has eaten one shoe, found the one patch of the yard that turns to mud, and fallen asleep on my feet at eight o'clock in a way that made it impossible to get up for an hour and a half. I did not get up. I sat there and let my foot go numb and Danny brought me a glass of water and did not say anything about it either. Naming him Biscuit was not a decision anybody made. He arrived and then after about four hours we were both saying it.

Both of us thinking the same sentence and both of us deciding the car was not the place. Which is funny, because the car is where we have every other version of this conversation.