“The Deal”
They said I couldn’t keep him.
The landlord was firm. No pets. Not even the quiet ones. Not even the ones who’d saved your life. I stood in the doorway of my one-bedroom apartment, clutching the lease renewal in one hand and Max’s leash in the other. He looked up at me, tail wagging, eyes full of trust. He didn’t know what the paper meant. He didn’t know that someone had decided he didn’t belong.
Max wasn’t just a dog. He was the reason I got out of bed after my mother died. The reason I stopped drinking. The reason I started walking again after the accident. He was a mutt—part shepherd, part mystery—with a crooked ear and a bark that sounded like a question. He was mine.
But the building had changed hands. New management. New rules. And I was given two options: give him up, or move out.
I had no savings. No family nearby. No job that paid enough to cover a deposit elsewhere. But I had Max. And I wasn’t letting him go.
So I made a deal.
There was a woman in the building—Mrs. Ellison. She lived on the ground floor, in a unit with a private entrance. She was old, sharp-tongued, and always smelled faintly of lavender and mothballs. But she liked Max. She’d sneak him treats when I wasn’t looking. She’d talk to him like he was her grandson.
I asked her if she’d take him in. Just on paper. Just until I could figure something out. I’d still walk him, feed him, care for him. He’d still sleep in my apartment. But officially, he’d be hers.
She agreed. On one condition.
“I want your Sundays,” she said.
I blinked. “What?”
“Every Sunday, you come to my apartment. You sit with me. You listen. You help me with the garden. You make tea. You pretend I’m not alone.”
It was strange. But it was a lifeline. I said yes.
And so began the deal I’m still paying for.
At first, it was easy. I’d bring Max down on Sunday mornings. We’d sit on her porch while she told stories about her late husband, her estranged daughter, the war. She’d hand me clippings from her rose bushes and ask me to plant them in neat rows. She’d make tea—always chamomile—and insist I drink it even when it was too hot.
Max loved her. He’d curl up at her feet, tail thumping whenever she laughed. And I started to love her too, in a way. Not romantically. Not even like family. But like someone who had become part of the rhythm of my life.
Then things changed.
Mrs. Ellison got sick. First it was her knees. Then her lungs. Then her memory. She started forgetting Max’s name. She’d call him “Charlie,” then “Benny,” then “the good boy.” She’d forget who I was. She’d ask me to read her stories she’d already heard. She’d cry without knowing why.
But I kept coming. Every Sunday. Even when she stopped making tea. Even when the garden grew wild. Even when she forgot the deal.
Because Max remembered. He’d nudge her hand when she was sad. He’d bark when she wandered too close to the street. He’d sit beside her bed when she couldn’t get up.
And I remembered too. I remembered the day I almost gave him away. I remembered the way her voice had steadied mine. I remembered the deal.
Then, one Sunday, she didn’t answer the door.
I found her in her chair, eyes closed, hands folded. Max whined softly, nudging her knee. But she was gone.
The paramedics came. The neighbors gathered. And I stood there, leash in hand, heart heavy.
The building manager approached me later that week. “Technically,” he said, “the dog’s registration was under Mrs. Ellison. With her gone, we’ll need to revisit your lease.”
I nodded. I didn’t argue. I didn’t plead.
Instead, I walked Max to the garden. The roses were blooming wildly, tangled and bright. I sat on the porch and poured two cups of tea—one for me, one for memory.
And I thought about the deal.
It had cost me time. It had cost me comfort. It had tethered me to a woman I hadn’t chosen, to a routine I hadn’t planned. But it had also given me something rare: connection. Purpose. A reminder that love isn’t always convenient, and loyalty isn’t always clean.
I still live in that apartment. Max is older now. Slower. His bark is softer, his steps more careful. But he’s still mine.
And every Sunday, I walk to the garden. I sit on the porch. I drink chamomile tea. I remember Mrs. Ellison.
Because some deals aren’t about money. Some debts aren’t meant to be repaid.
Some are meant to be honored.
