He was so good about it. It was as if his only need was to please her, never to judge her as demanding or capricious. When they were younger he had sometimes resisted, but the older he grew the sweeter and more patient he was when the urge came upon her. As soon as she made her desire known, he would stop whatever he was doing and come to her. Even if he was asleep his brown eyes would open instantly in response, and then he would be hers, trembling under her hands. In turn, his devotion aroused such tenderness in her that she would sing her love to him as she gently ran her hands over his compact, familiar body. After all their years together they were so attuned that no words were necessary; he would step right into the tub with no more urging than an eloquent gesture of her arm. Of course he still dreaded a bath as much as the next dog, but the rewards of cooperation were greater than his horror of being washed, and he tried to concentrate on the biscuit she always placed on the window sill for him to enjoy afterwards. He would stand bravely, knee-deep in the lukewarm water, while she sudsed and rinsed away the traces of sidewalk dust, grass clippings, and drowned fleas, restoring his coat to its white-and-buff brilliance. The only sign of stress he allowed himself was to run his bright red tongue over his nose and roll his eyes up at her. Good, she would say, drawing out the vowel like a caress, good boy. Neither of them thought that some day, some year that comforting sound would be the last his silky, mortal ears would hear: her voice crooning Good, good boy, good.
---Julie Alger
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