The Bear Who Wore Orange

Marcus's dog—a Golden Retriever ironically named Bear—had zero chill. Zero.

"Bear, get down from there RIGHT NOW," I hissed, tugging on the leash while my dog decided the middle of the town square was the perfect spot to investigate something fascinating in the bushes.

People were staring. I could feel my face doing that thing where it betrayed me by turning five shades of "I'm definitely not panicking."

"Need help?" a voice called out.

It was Tyler from my English class. The guy who sat three rows back and never spoke. Now here he was, watching me battle my very uncooperative dog.

"I'm good," I lied as Bear finally emerged triumphantly with something orange clamped in his jaws. An orange peel? A piece of some kid's traffic cone? Who knew.

"Your dog's adorable," Tyler said, approaching like he was dealing with a wild animal. "What's his name?"

"Bear."

"Classic." He scratched behind Bear's ears, and my dog—my TRAITOR dog—immediately flopped over for belly rubs like they'd been best friends for years. "You know, I used to have a Golden growing up. They're basically spies, you know. Always watching, always waiting for food to drop."

I laughed. It just slipped out, but it felt easy. Natural.

"My friend thinks I should've named him something cooler," I said. "Like Bandit or Ace. But he looked like a Bear, so Bear happened."

"Bear's perfect." Tyler grinned, and I noticed the way his nose crinkled slightly. "My friend back in Ohio had this theory that pet names say everything about a person. She swore by it."

"What's yours say about you?" I challenged before I could overthink it.

"That I have no pets." He shrugged. "My parents are allergic to everything. But I'm pretty good at scratching dog ears."

Bear had abandoned his orange treasure in favor of Tyler's attention. Traitor.

"Hey," Tyler said suddenly, "some friends and I are going to the movies Friday. Want to come?"

The offer hung there between us, light and casual but somehow heavy with possibility. My stomach did that flip thing, like Bear did when he spotted a squirrel.

"Yeah," I heard myself say. "Yeah, I'd like that."

As we walked toward the park, Bear trotting happily between us like he'd planned this whole thing, I realized something: sometimes the most embarrassing moments with your dog weren't mortifying at all. Sometimes, they were just the beginning.