Chapter Twenty-One A Corgi’s Lament
Sir Stumps-a-Lot
HE HAD BEEN left .
Abandoned.
Dispatched like a short, snorty diplomat to a land of soft blankets and emotional repression.
But he understood.
The tall one loved the loud one. The loud one loved the tall one. But they were both idiots .
So he stayed.
He burrowed. He farted. He guarded.
He did not nap. He patrolled.
He watched her watch the ceiling at 3 a.m., eyes wide and red but not crying.
He watched her talk to herself about “emotional sneezes” and “ruined pancakes” and “why does he have to be so good at coffee orders like a smug caffeine wizard?”
She fell asleep talking once. He didn’t move. Just shifted closer. Guarded the spot beside her heart where something had cracked.
He didn’t judge.
(Okay. He judged a little. But with love.)
And in the morning, when she sat on the kitchen floor in his direction and offered him a croissant—still warm, still flaky—and whispered, “You’re the only straight man I lo—trust ,” he accepted it with grace.
He’d seen worse. He’d eaten worse. He’d once stolen a burrito from a banker. He had no regrets.
He was Sir Stumps-a-Lot.
First of his name.
Witness to Kisses.
Unpaid therapist to fools in love.
Protector of the emotionally volatile .
And he would see this ridiculous, chaotic love story through to the end.
He sighed.
True nobility required sacrifice. And sometimes... croissants.