When Zoe first saw Finn, her head spun out like she had just sniffed a popper. Two weeks in, they brushed against each other’s arms; this caused a similar, pleasantly confused effect. Zoe and Finn had stayed up later than the others playing Gin Rummy. He knocked first. Then she knocked out first. 

Zoe didn’t have a competitive bone in her body. She rolled onto her belly and fell asleep. Finn stayed upright with perked ears. All of her lazy bones pressed on his thoracic cavity in a way he found smug.

Finn admitted this to her much later. “Shouldn’t Something Keep You Up At Night?”

Zoe didn’t flinch. If anything, provocation softened her. “Don’t You Like That I Feel Safe Enough To Sleep Next To You?”

“No,” he said. Aggression lingered between them.

People say dogs are simple. That they don’t have any concept of time. But I’ve taken care of them long enough at the shelter. I notice they notice: who leaves, who returns, who chooses who. Who waits and suffers. I almost think I know what they’d say if they could talk, but I know better now. When you open your mouth, all this stuff comes out that’s not you, it’s coming through you. I filled in a lot of gaps, attributing meaning to mundanity. Isn’t that what people do when they’re in love anyway? 

Zoe tried to sleep elsewhere. There were more than enough beds to choose from, but other animals only noticed her long hair or wide eyes or shiny coat: things you don’t need a heart to see. Admiration felt 2D. What she really wanted was a companion who would sink his teeth into her.

One night she went out with Milo, who self-described as “An Open Book.” He proved this claim immediately. Lying out his medical history before she took a sip from her drink, he droned on about his recent seizure—the pool of blood he woke in, the tongue he accidentally bit. 

Zoe was a good girl. She listened actively, which looked passive. Milo mistook silence for encouragement. He stuck out his tongue. “Look, The Ulcers. The Stitches.” Her instincts worked this time. “Get That Thing Away From Me!” Zoe said, backing away. She left Milo and his tongue with her unfinished beverage. She walked and walked, letting thoughts of Finn fill her like running a bath. 

When Zoe got home, she returned to her natural inclination. She backed her butt into Finn. He leaned his weight into her.

From the start, Finn stuck to Zoe like Velcro. He needed a strong, temporary bond just as badly as he needed to easily pull it apart. When Finn initiated a Staring Competition, she accepted the challenge. They held each other’s gaze for minutes, maybe hours. He was going longer than usual. Long enough that it turned into something else. 

Finn broke first. He flashed his teeth and chortled. “Sometimes I Get Urges I Want To Hit You,” he said. Violence, or at least the idea of it, allowed Finn to reshape intimacy into something more tolerable. 

Zoe tilted her head. “That Was A Weird Thing To Say.” Something activated inside her, not fear really, but whatever it was, sat there like a slow-release gel. She didn’t leave before it kicked in.

There was little Finn could do that would push her away. He would fart in her presence. He’d bite. Hiss. Snarl. None of these tactics worked. He’d get closer and lick her nose, her ears, her face. Nothing was off limits. He’d sniff perfume on Zoe’s neck, sweat in her armpits. She stayed. If anything, she seemed to like it.

A few weeks ago, I caught Finn stealing food from Zoe’s mouth. He had already licked his bowl clean when he shoved his tongue in like a shovel. Zoe wasn’t angry that he shoplifted her last bite of chicken. He felt safe enough to be a little asshole. She bit his shoulder. It seemed to please him. 

Finn’s bites went much deeper. She picked up her paw and revealed her chest: a splotch of fur and dried blood that took weeks to heal. Unfortunately, Zoe looked at this mark fondly. Finn wanted to affect her, but that wasn’t the same thing as affection.  

After one long Sunday walk, Finn approached her. She shocked them both by stepping back. Finn went still and halted his breath. Then she called her own bluff, closed the gap, and rested her head on his like nothing ever happened.

Sometimes Zoe would go out with other potential mates. Finn tried to shake it off. Jealousy is hard to shake. He would try to get off too: first on himself, then with other girls. Most of them didn’t return any signals. He’d call them a bitch then move on. 

One evening Finn made himself useful by gathering sticks in the backyard. He stacked them into a Jenga tower and waited for Zoe. When she finally came home, he bowed and made an offering. “Why Were You Gone For So Long. I Made This For You,” he said. Finn held there until Zoe caved, like she always did. She pushed her snout into the tower. Boop. All of the sticks collapsed.

Recently a visitor came by the shelter. He stalked around, studying the dogs carefully. I thought he might take one of them home, but the only words he said were “thanks ma’am.” When he closed the door, Zoe vomited black bile onto the floor.

Finn sensed her internal weather like a Doppler radar. “Why Are You In A Bad Mood?”

She started to explain but drifted through half-formed sentences.

Finn cut her off. “This Is Boring. This Is A Boring Story.”

“That’s Rude. I’m Giving You Context.”

“Tell Me A Fucking Story, Make Me Feel Something!” Finn begged.

Zoe tried to get in touch with what she felt. Nothing came. “We Used To Play Together,” she said, about the visitor. “Now He’s A Stranger.” 

Finn moved closer and sat in the slop formerly in Zoe’s stomach. His version of empathy. “If You Care About The Visitor, Tell Him. Don’t Expect Him To Read Your Mind.”

“It’s Embarrassing To Care About A Friendship More,” she said. 

This irritated Finn. “You Must Operate From A Place Of Love And Show Him How You Feel To Get An Answer. Be A Human Being Because Right Now You’re Just Wasting My Time By Information Dumping.” 

Zoe knew what he meant. But she failed her first test and studied his sharp tongue like a star pupil who doesn’t leave her desk.

When they walked, Finn always stayed one step ahead. This time, he slowed down and hesitated. “Look, I Like Benefitting From It,” he said. “But It’s Not Always Good. Take Up Space.” 

Zoe’s paws trailed behind.

Finn pressed for a reaction, like a Staples button without a battery. “I See You In Groups And You Just Let Them Talk.”

“I Like To Give Space. To Listen.” 

He stopped walking. “Yeah But Don’t Do It So Much.”

“When There’s Too Many Big Personalities In The Room, It Disrupts The Flow.”

“Fuck The Flow. Insert Yourself,” he said.

“What’s The Point If No One Will Listen?” she asked. 

They remained at a deadlock.

If other dogs were nearby, Finn liked to test controversial material on her. He knew it would rile her up. “Women Shouldn’t Work When Raising Kids,” he said. 

Zoe retorted on command. “What About Her Career, Her Freedom?”

Finn bit down harder. “I Don’t Want A Partner Who Cares More About Her Career, Than Taking Care Of The Kids.”

“Can’t She Have Both? What If They Divorce?”

He was unmoved. “That’s Deeply Unromantic.”

“That’s Reality. 50% Of Marriages End That Way,” she said.

“I Just Don’t Get Why You Would Fight To Work So You Could Be A Slave To Your Employer. Then Come Home And Do Another Job. No Wonder They End In Divorce.”

“I Want To Be With Someone Who Sees Raising Kids As A Two-Person Job.”

Finn rolled over, tired of an argument he started, or maybe second-wave feminism. “I Will Live On A Farm In Argentina And Live Like A Monk With Horses,” he declared.

“In Your Dream World.”

“Yeah. In My Dream World.”

At least Finn agreed with her on something. Other dogs had left by now. But a tiny caveman with an axe lodged in Zoe’s brain, chipping away at her primal urge until she put her canines over Finn’s nose until he groaned, “Enough.” She had bad breath. 

What haunts me more than anything is when they were leaning on each other outside, illuminated by the full moon. Finn looked up at the sky. “I Don’t Believe In Unconditional Love,” he said.

“Why On Earth Would You Say Such A Thing?” she asked, turning to him. Zoe was desperate to unearth his goodness like her life depended on it. In a way, it did.

“You’re Not Entitled To Love,” he said. “You Have To Do Something Worthy Of It And Keep Trying.”

“I Don’t Think It’s Good To Operate From A Debt,” she said. “There Should Be A Surplus You Want To Keep Adding To, Not Working Your Way Back Up To Zero.”

“Why Would I Give Love For Nothing?”

“Because That’s The Point.”

“I Don’t Think Anyone Deserves Love. I Don’t Think We Deserve Anything,” Finn said.

“I Grew Up Feeling Like I Had To Earn Love, Perform For It, Else My Father Didn’t Pay Attention To Me,” she said. 

“Look At You,” Finn said. “I’d Be Happy If My Kid Turned Out Like You.”

“But We Can’t Love People Unconditionally Without Consequences For Bad Behaviour,” he added.

“Sure,” she agreed. 

“Like If My Kid Misbehaves He Should Be Slapped,” he said.

“There Are Other Ways To Punish Him,” she said, stupidly. How do they know it’s a Him? 

“My Dad Did It. My Dad’s Dad Did It. So I Will Do It Too.”

“You Sound Machiavellian.”

“Exactly, It’s Much Safer To Be Feared Than Loved,” he said.

Zoe wondered what was on the other side of fear, but she was too afraid to ask.

In the end, Finn was chosen first. A burly man with leather skin came in looking for a companion that he could always return. When the man wrapped his “vibration-only” training collar around the girth of Finn’s neck, it fit perfectly. And that was it. 

Zoe and Finn both knew the shelter was a womb; it would push them out eventually. They’d die here if they stayed too long. Before Finn began his new lease on life, I watched him get more aggressive with Zoe. He paced in circles, barking at the dark, eating out of her bowl. On his last night, Finn lay his head beside her and didn’t blink once.

Sheridan Wilbur is a writer from Rhode Island. She lives and works in London. Her writing has appeared in The Guardian, Huck, Worms, Hobart, High Horse, among others. She has a tree nut allergy. 

IG: @sheridan_wilbur

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