A shaggy dog holding a bone stands in a cozy, sunlit kitchen with an old fridge, plants, and an adjacent living room.

As I enter the kitchen, I take a look around. Potted herbs sit in the window over the sink, an array of kitschy magnets cover an old Kelvinator fridge, and two stools line up against the breakfast counter. In the corner of the countertop next to the coffee machine, I spot a cookie jar in the shape of a highland cow and, lifting the cow’s horned head off, I peer inside to find some bone-shaped baked goods. Toast Malone takes a seat by my feet like he’s a drug dog at JFK, sitting to alert me of a suspicious suitcase. I take out a cookie and hand it to the dog, who sniffs it first before accepting it in a surprisingly gentle manner, swallowing it after two hearty chomps. Standing, he trots through the doorway and into the living room, and I watch him through the cut-out wall as he hops up onto the blue corner sofa and lies down with the kind of sigh you’d expect from a middle-aged father of three who just worked a twelve-hour shift at the mill. Scanning the living room, I smile. It’s tiny and cozy with two windows that open to a small fire escape, with a view of Bleeker Street below. A television and a few art prints hang on a red brick wall. There’s a fireplace with a heap of half-melted candles filling the hearth. And potted plants— some dead, some thriving—are literally everywhere. Ver mais