It’s one of those New York winter days where the Christmas decorations have all been taken down but spring still feels so distant you might have imagined the holiday. It’s bleak, gray and bone-chillingly cold. My partner is studying abroad the semester, so I am heading home to an empty apartment. It’s the end of a long week at work, and a commute that feels even longer. Each of the three trains I have to take has had some sort of delay. I just want to get home.
I’m the only one on the elevator out of the subway station, but as the doors start to slide closed, someone else slips inside. We’re both bundled up against the cold, but out of the front of her coat pokes a small, furry face. I must make some kind of noise when I see the dog, because she smiles at me and says, “Do you wanna pet him?”
“Yes, please,” I squeak.
She unzips the front of her jacket and holds out the dog for me to pet. He’s tiny and fluffy, some kind of Pomeranian mix I think, and when I take off my glove and offer my hand, he licks my fingers. I reach out and scratch behind his ears, and oh my god. This is the softest dog I’ve ever met. The softest dog imaginable.
“Oh my god,” I say out loud.
“Isn’t he sweet?” she says. “He’s not even mine. I’m dog-sitting for a friend.”
“Well, tell your friend they have the cutest dog in the world.”
She leans in a little and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I’ve been thinking I might not give him back.”
“I wouldn’t!” I say, and she laughs, bright and startled.
The elevator dings and the doors open. She tucks the dog back into the front of her jacket. I wave goodbye and head off in the opposite direction. I pull my glove back on, but the wind doesn’t seem as cold anymore as I make my way home.
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