I sit at the top of the stairs that lead to the backyard, on the phone, and pause to call the dog. I tell him to come but he doesn’t. Once, and then one more time and louder too in case he’s around the corner and my voice didn’t carry enough. I call again and this time I hear him shake, hear the rattle of his collar. He’s by the gate, ignoring me, ignoring the call. He wants to go out for a walk. I know this. I knew this when I got up from the couch, done with dinner, and he practically jumped into the air by my shoes, by my coat and his leash. I apologize to Liz, who’s waiting for me on the phone, and I clomp down the steps, angry now.

When he doesn’t come as called, I get angry. Really angry. So angry that I think, “I can never have kids. How can I have kids if I get so irreparably angry over a misbehaving dog?” I can feel it at the pit of my stomach. I stop and stare at him in the backyard, him by the gate and me by the steps, phone by my ear. I tell him to come again and he shakes his head and takes a few steps toward me, only to turn and face the gate. He wants to walk. It makes me angrier.

I don’t see him home all day, curled up on his bed, bored, sleeping, waiting for me to come home. Six hours from the time I leave until the dogwalker comes (Ty, who’s moving to New York soon) and then four, maybe five hours until I walk in the door. I don’t see him in my silent, waiting apartment, his head pressed against the floor, listening for the distinctive way I open the door downstairs, check the mail, hit the steps on my way up. I don’t see his feet underneath the door.

Instead, I see him standing at the gate, wanting one thing when I’ve clearly demanded something else. I step forward and grab him by the collar and pull him a few steps toward the stairs and I snap, “UP” and my voice isn’t calm, I’m not centered or balanced or whatever Cesar wants me to be. He takes for the steps at a full run. His ears are back and his tail is down.

I’m still angry now, even though for him the moment has passed and now we’re on to a different thing entirely, me at the computer, him curled around the wheels of my chair, this is a familiar refrain. I’m still angry even though I got what I wanted and he didn’t. He wanted to walk. I didn’t. He’s not angry but I am.