The Dog Who Ate My Social Life

The first day of freshman year, I made a vow: no more being the quiet kid who blended into lockers. I'd join the swim team. Make friends. Finally talk to Mia, who'd been in my homeroom since seventh grade and still didn't know my name.

The universe had other plans.

"You need these," my mom said, thrusting a bottle of gummy vitamins at me. "Your immune system needs boosting. School is a petri dish."

I grabbed the bottle, already late for swim tryouts. Buster, our golden retriever, watched from the couch with those judgmental eyes.

"Don't give him any," Mom called as I rushed out. "These are formulated for humans."

Famous last words.

That afternoon, I came home defeated. I'd choked during tryouts, swallowed half the pool, and Mia had watched the whole spectacle from the bleachers. I collapsed on the floor, Buster immediately slobbering all over my face.

"You're the only one who loves me," I sighed, fishing the vitamin bottle from my bag. "Want one?"

Buster's tail thumped.

"Of course you do." I tossed him a gummy. He caught it mid-air.

Then another. And another.

"Wait." My brain caught up with reality. "Buster, no! That's not—"

But it was too late. The bottle was empty. Buster burped, then proceeded to sprint around the living room like he'd discovered coffee.

My mom found us an hour later: me trying to tackle a zoomies-ing golden retriever, both of us sliding across the hardwood in our socks.

"You gave him HOW MANY?" she shrieked.

"They were gummy!" I defended weakly. "He thought they were treats!"

Buster chose that moment to barf rainbow goo all over the rug.

The next day at school, I was dead tired from the Buster Incident. I fell asleep in chemistry and woke up to Mia laughing.

"You drooled," she whispered.

"That's embarrassing," I muttered, wiping my chin.

"Your dog's Instagram is legendary now." She showed me her phone. Someone had videoed Buster chasing his tail in our front yard, which my sister had posted. "He's so hyped up. Did you give him espresso or something?"

"Vitamins," I groaned. "Don't ask."

She laughed. A real, genuine laugh. "Wanna sit with me at lunch? I need to hear this whole story."

Buster's accidental overdose didn't kill him—thank science for small miracles—but it did kill my social invisibility. Mia and I talked for forty-five minutes about dogs, swimming, and how freshman year was basically just surviving one awkward moment at a time.

"Come to swim practice tomorrow," she said. "We're not all competitive freaks. Some of us just like not drowning."

"I'll bring extra vitamins," I said. "For the humans."

She grinned. "Deal."

That night, Buster slept at the foot of my bed, exhausted from his sugar-fueled adventure. I patted his head.

"Good boy," I whispered. "But next time, stick to dog treats."

His tail gave one sleepy thump.

Sometimes the worst accidents lead to the best outcomes. Or at least that's what I told myself as I scrolled through Mia's follow request on Instagram.

Freshman year might not be so bad after all.