Monday’s foreshadowing
          came through.

After your nap,
      you and Coal came over
      and the Salt Cannon

      finally got its first assignment.

Steak.

Obviously steak.

Questionably seasoned steak,
            because I tried
           not to overdo it,
                but cannons

            will be cannony.

I think I did okay.

You ate every bite.

With a little help
         from Coal,
   who understands
   quality control
    as a lifestyle.

There was also
      a giant potato,
      because apparently
      we were feeding a frontier family,

      and not two adults watching soccer.

France and Senegal
       gave us the first shape of the night.

Then Messi
     walked into the plot
     like he had heard me

     talking mess from Buckhead.

Before the match,
       I joked
       maybe I’d get

       to see some Messi tears.


Cute.

Adorable.

Naive little man.

I had no idea
  what kind of machinery
       I had just touched.

The reverse curse
        kicked in…

        with both boots.

Hat trick.

Record tied.

History happening
        right there in the room,
        while I sat there responsible

        for all of it, apparently.

You’re welcome,
         Messi.

Thank you very little.

And you,
    of course,
    were excited

    to see the history.

Because you do not
        carry the appropriate
         Messi loathing
          in your heart,

          which is a flaw
          I am willing to keep studying…

          under controlled conditions.

Still,
      your joy
      kept a light
      on in the room.

So fine.

Let the man
    have his goals.

Let history
    do the irritating thing
    where it shows up
    wearing the wrong jersey

    and still looks good in the photograph.

After the adequate steak
      and the giant potato,
      we settled into
      that strange late-night limbo

      between games,
      between energy,
      between "good idea"

      and "let’s not lie to ourselves."

The late match
    was supposed to start at eleven.

Then midnight.

Midnight.

Absolutely not.

We gave it
   about twenty-five minutes
   because we are brave,
              committed,

  deeply unreasonable people
  who also know when the couch is winning.

So you packed up
   Coal’s newly cleaned blanket.

Grabbed the car.

I took Coal and Orca
  for the last little walk.

Then met you
     at the curb
     for one of those exits
     so clean

     it should have its own choreography.

No snag.

No fuss.

Just you,
     Coal,
     blanket,
     car,
     curb,
     goodbye.

Flawless.

Then the door closed.

Then the car left.

Then Orca made a sound
     I had never heard from her before.

Not a bark.

Not a whine.

Not puppy complaint
    number forty-seven.

A cry.

A real one.

Like some part of her
     had just noticed
     that Coal was gone
     and could not understand
     why the house still smelled

     like he should be there.

In the middle
   of one ordinary Tuesday night,
   Coal had become her biggest hero.

Nobody told me.

Nobody told her,
         either.

It just happened.

Somewhere between
       patio dogs,
       couch dogs,
       steak assistance,
       blanket logistics,
       and old-lab calm,

       Orca had decided:

       that one.

That one matters.

And then he left.

She didn’t stop
    for nearly an hour.

Made me circle
     the parking lot twice.

Nose down.

Hope up.

Looking.

Then inside.

Everywhere he’d been.

The spot by the couch.

The place near the door.

The path through the room.

The invisible map
    only a dog could still read.

She’d plop down
      for a minute,
      like maybe grief
      could be negotiated
      from that angle,

      then pop back up
      and try the next place.

Unexpected.

Sweet.

Sad.

All at once.

Which,
      come to think of it,
      is a pretty accurate description

      of most things worth keeping.

Tuesday was tremendous.

Questionable steak.

Historic nuisance Messi.

Late-game surrender.

Flawless exit.

One broken-hearted puppy
    searching the house for her hero.

And us,
       still weaving the thread
             at breakneck speed.

Today, maybe I get a Braves-night sighting.

Maybe not.

Either way,
       Tuesday left enough
       to keep finding

       everywhere it had been.