Defeated, I open the door and hold it for her. Except the dog bounds up to us and goes in first. I stare at him. He came inside. He’s never wanted to. He whines and glances at Rooney, big brown eyes pinned on her. Rooney crosses the threshold, then crouches in front of him, running her hands down his body in slow, steady strokes. “You’re such a sweetheart,” she croons to him, affectionately massaging around his ears. The dog shuts his eyes and sways dreamily. Lucky bastard.
