Buster Cleans Up Mommy

The old tennis ball was permanently flat on one side. It didn't bounce true anymore, but it still smelled like a gym floor and old hope.

I sat on the cool grass of the backyard, watching the moon hang like a pale slice of melon in the sky. It was 3:00 AM, that quiet hour when the world feels empty and the air gets a bit crisp. Tommy, the neighbor's kid, had finally decided it was time for me to go back inside. He didn't just open the door for me; he gave me a little pat on the flank and pointed toward the house, his voice sleepy and muffled. He’s a good boy, usually, though he smells like old corn chips and desperation.

I didn't rush. I took a slow lap around the perimeter of the fence, checking for stray squirrels or intruders, before heading toward the doggy door. The plastic flap clicked against my neck—a familiar, rhythmic sound. As soon as I crossed the threshold and hit the hardwood of the kitchen, the air changed. The house was silent, but the scent hitting my nostrils was loud. It was an explosion of sweetness, something thick and indulgent that made my mouth water instantly.

I know the smell of kibble ...