The dog was still there.
The dog. Was still. There.
There was the dog, still.
The dog, still, was there.
Still, the dog was there.
Shit. Walking back into the office he asked Mr. Helpful what the charge for pets was. Free, he was told. Slapping a fifty on the desk he said, just in case, looked at a weakly floating Mylar balloon that proclaimed “Happy Birthday!” and went back to stand in the doorway and look at the dog. The dog looked at him. There was an inspection going on. A weighing and a measuring. Both animals wanted company and both wanted to be left alone. The dog broke the stalemate, dropping the sock and trotting to the door, sitting down and looking up at the man.
“Good dog” said the man.
Here’s looking at you, said the dog.
“You should have a name I guess,” said the man, “even if you’re not going to be around long.”
You don’t need a name, said the dog, as long as you can make food appear and it doesn’t rain in the room.
Trouble was what to do with the dog. The door and its inability to securely close had put him in this situation. Maybe it could get him out.
“Stay,” said the man.
Just make sure you leave a sock out, said the dog.
“Stay.” Pulling the door gently he let it sweep the dog gently into the room, the dog avoiding thedoor by backing up but not breaking for it.
At least I got a sock, said the dog.