Irby’s by noon,
       patio sun doing its warm-up laps.

I set our corner,
  ordered patience on ice,
  and waited for the star.

2:30—delivery confirmed:
     Mari drops Mr. C for pit-lane cuddles.

New recruit issued: “Pete” (toy, squeaker, questionable face)

He *hated* Pete.

Sniff.
Side-eye.
Judicial refusal.

Pete spent a full 2 innings in exile
            under the chair of shame.

Then he didn’t. (verdict reversed)

Somewhere between treats and trust,
          Pete got paroled…
          one paw on the new guy,
          tail a quiet metronome,

          acceptance signed in chin rests.

Three hours later,
      Mari reappears—
          quick beer,
         quick smile,
         our small room inside the (outside) roar—

      and then chariot-home for the CEO of Chillin’.

Burger mission scrubbed for timing,
    raincheck on the bun-coded joy. (I owe you, Sir… it’s in the ledger)

I floated back to Sylvan
  with a pocketful of good,
  hoping for a reprise—
  the city said “not tonight,”

  and that was fine.

We threaded anyway,
   proof-of-us arriving in little lights
            until sleep found the switch.

Today’s plan:
        keep it easy,
        let the evening carry the weight—

        MLB/NFL double-feature,
                 Irby's bartop…

        best seats in the house.

Status update:
  * Pete—probationary favorite
  * Coal—professional
  * Burger—pending launch window
  * Me—smiling at the thought of Mari’s “there”
                    (already hearing her “here”)

Hate at first bite?
     Cute story, for a minute.

Love by the second inning
        is more our brand. (And Coal agrees)