More old stuff. What I like about this one is that I now have a dog I sometimes like to call Palindrome Pete.
The passion noises had muted, not because either of them initiated it, but simply because that’s what happens after a few months of marriage. The house grew quiet and, sitting there in the evenings not saying much, not doing much, they both became uncomfortable, bored. In the back of both of their minds, it was an expected occurrence. It’s too early for children, she thought. Too soon to talk of therapy, thought he. But something was missing, they both agreed. The house needed life.
A weekend trip to the pound was their resolution. And there, among scrappy old mutts and weakened senior purebreds, they found him. She placed her hands out and he filled them with his warm spotted muzzle. He looked up to her and they caught each other, each with heartbroken eyes.
The tag on the kennel said that his name was Palindrome. It suits him, they both agreed, neither knowing any more about the dog than what they saw before them – a lanky, overgrown puppy.