Walter’s face was blank for a moment and then he nodded. He stood up. “Okay.” He made to leave the room.

  Phoebe and I both raised our heads because we picked up on something between Alana and JayB.

  “Wait, hang on. We need to talk, Dad.”

  Walter’s shoulders slumped. He settled reluctantly back in his chair. “Okay, before you say anything, I need to tell you something. All right? Just listen.”

  JayB shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I may not be as involved in the day-to-day, but even I can see that you and Alana are the only reason this whole operation works. Not just because of the dog park. It’s the way you manage the people, JayB. And the improvements you’re always making, Alana. And your dog shop, I mean, that’s going well, right, making a profit?”

  “True,” Alana agreed.

  “Business is good. No, it’s more than just good. Because of you two, DesMoines is free to run the kitchen, and now people come for the food. So I know the plan is for you to move on. You’re like me in that, JayB.”

  “Well…” JayB started to protest mildly.

  “Hang on, because I put a lot of thought into this. You ready?”

  There was a pause, and JayB nodded, “I guess we’re ready.”

  “Okay. I’m having the papers drawn up to give you fifty percent ownership of this place.” Walter gestured expansively, while Alana and JayB glanced at each other in surprise.

  “Wow,” JayB said softly.

  “And when I pass—which, you know, should be ten, forty, many years from now, you can have the other half. But only under two conditions.”

  “Dad…” JayB started.

  Alana put a hand on his arm. “What conditions?”

  Walter held up a finger, and I contemplated how much more attractive it would be if he had a gob of peanut butter on the end of it. “Number one is, you have to stay. You have to commit. I don’t know for how long, but for a long time. I’m talking years. Otherwise, no deal.”

  “And the second condition?” JayB prompted.

  “Whether I’m still alive or not.”

  “You’re only sixty-one years old, Dad. Come on.”

  JayB was grinning, but Walter looked serious. “The other condition is, no matter what happens to me, you keep DesMoines. She gets to work here for as long as she wants. I mean it.” Walter sat back in his seat.

  I inhaled, taking in the wonderful odor of fish clinging to his clothing.

  “You’ve surprised us, Walter,” Alana commented carefully. “We never even considered this.”

  JayB nodded. “Didn’t see it coming.”

  Walter shrugged. “Owning things is only important if you can share them with the people you care about. Come here, you two.”

  Walter stood and held out his arms, and first Alana and then JayB stepped into them. The three of them hugged while Phoebe gave me a look of complete non-comprehension.

  “Now, Jago,” Walter grated hoarsely, “I know I haven’t been the greatest father in the world, but I feel like I’ve really changed, and I promise you I’ll do better.”

  “You haven’t been a bad father,” JayB protested. His voice was tight, too.

  “So.” Walter stepped back and looked at Alana and JayB. “What’s your answer?”

  JayB and Alana glanced at each other again. “You don’t have to give us anything, Walter,” she replied. “We were already going to stay.”

  Walter blinked.

  “Yeah, we talked about it,” JayB affirmed. “We’ve been talking about almost nothing else for the past six months. We like it here. You’re right. Alana innovates, I implement. You come back from the market with squid milk and flaming cactus and lava worms and DesMoines turns them into something amazing. So, there’s no need for your kind offer. You were operating under false assumptions.”

  Walter shook his head, smiling. “No, I wasn’t. I meant it; without you two, this ship would sink. I’m insisting on making you partners. It’s good business.” He looked at his wrist. “Speaking of, I’m meeting that guy I told you about—got a repossessed inventory from a liquor store to sell off.”

  “Okay, just…” JayB looked pained. “Make good decisions.”

  Walter waved his phone. “Don’t worry, Rodney programmed my phone so I can look up the prices for anything.” He turned and left the room.

  “That’s Google,” JayB softly told Walter’s back.

  Alana and JayB sat back down. I glanced at Phoebe. As usual, I couldn’t tell what, if anything, she was thinking, but I knew my mind was on the fact that we often were served food in this room, and therefore we should probably continue to do a good Sit just in case.

  “Well, this really changes things,” Alana observed, “I know he said we would both have ownership, but you’re the heir. It rightfully belongs to you.”

  JayB shook his head. “No—if not for you, this place would have collapsed. Not just because of the marketing and the dog shop, but everything else. You and DesMoines are really in charge of the restaurant. I keep the parts oiled, but you two invented the parts.” JayB patted his stomach. “Well … I also do taste-testing of new menu items.”

  Alana smiled. “We’ve got to get you back to walking dogs.”

  “Yes, we do,” JayB agreed. Then he gave her a meaningful look. “So we’re partners. This deal sort of forges us into a forever kind of relationship, don’t you think?”

  “Oh?” Alana responded warily.

  JayB nodded. “You live with me, we work together, and now we co-own half a restaurant. So…”

  “So?” Alana repeated, mock-stern. “I’m picking up another one of your subtle hints here. But if you’re talking about something other than the restaurant, spell it out.”

  “Okay, then,” JayB said agreeably. He stood up, walked over to where Alana was sitting, and then dropped to his knees. Alana’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. “I have a question for you, Alana.”

  He reached into his pocket. I didn’t smell any dog treats in there, but suddenly the room crackled with nervous energy—and, underlying it all, real happiness—so I did what any dog would do under the situation: I jumped on top of JayB, knocking him over. Instantly, Phoebe crashed into me, so the two of us were straddling JayB, who covered his face as Phoebe inadvertently stepped on it.

  “Dogs!” JayB sputtered. I licked his face.

  Giggling, Alana joined us in the pile, and now there were two dogs and two people, rolling on the floor together.

  They were happy. And I was happy, too.

  Dear Diary:

  It turns out I do live with two cats now.

  It’s twice as bad.

  Kelsey and Rhiannon do not live with cats, or at least they pretend they don’t, because they each refuse to acknowledge the existence of the other. There is a big couch in the living room and Kelsey has one end of it and Rhiannon has the other. That’s pretty much the only room they ever occupy at the same time. At night, when I’m sleeping on the bed, first Kelsey and then Rhiannon will take turns running in and leaping silently onto the mattress. They always come to me purring, as if I’m supposed to be happy to see them.

  I am never happy to see them.

  When I’m lying in my dog bed and just trying to be a dog, one of the cats will come up and curl up with me. This is not appreciated, but they don’t care what I think.

  It took only a few days after Rhiannon moved in before I reeked of cat stink. They breathe their fish breath on me and make me smell like that, too.

  We drive to our personal dog park almost every day. The cats never come, but they’re always in the house when we return.

  Alana and JayB spend nearly all of their time together. They make each other happy.

  We often stop and pick up Phoebe on our way down to our personal dog park. I was chagrined the first time I saw her, conscious of how much cat smell clung to me. I didn’t know if she would reject me. I was somewhat surprised when she didn’t—instead, she seemed thrilled to see me, sniffing me up and down and wagging furiously.

  Now, when we’re at the dog park, Phoebe plays with me almost exclusively. I don’t know what I did to change her mind, but I’m happy that she loves me and that she is not repelled by my cat smell.

  Sometimes we go and pick up Spartan from Maddy and Rodney’s place. I’ve never been inside, but I often see one or both of the people come to the door with Spartan. Phoebe, I observe to my delight, also ignores Spartan now. And when we play, Phoebe and I, Spartan stonily looks away from us. I often think that if he lived in our house, he would occupy one end of the couch or the other.

  And that is my life. My name is Clancy and I am a good dog. I live with my person, JayB, and Alana, who I love just as much. Phoebe now knows we belong together. Everything is wonderful.

  Except the cats.

  Love,

  Clancy

  Acknowledgments, Meandering Thoughts, Song Lyrics

  Ironically, when I say I write fiction, it’s a nonfictional statement. That doesn’t mean, though, that everything I type is true, not even in the acknowledgments, which are generally supposed to be accurate. So when I say, “Thank you, Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk, for both giving me your entire fortunes,” I’m obviously forgetting about Bill Gates. Or when I thank Beyoncé for all the love letters, or People magazine for making me “Sexiest Man of this Century,” I am clearly exaggerating—it was last century. They haven’t even voted for this century yet, though I understand Beyoncé is lobbying hard for them to pick me.

  Love, Clancy is a work of fiction, though for me the characters feel so real, I have this ironic feeling that I should thank them first. Without Clancy, JayB, Alana, Maddy, and the rest, I couldn’t have written this novel—so thanks, guys, for showing up and insisting I quote you accurately.

  I should also thank anyone (you!) who reads the acknowledgments in any book, because they can be really granular (“Thank you, Uncle Bob, for pointing out my shoe was untied”), obscure (“Thanks, Rosemary Gluck, for your information on the impervious hermetical seals of the nineteenth century”), dubious (“Thank you, Beyoncé, for the wonderful weekend where we spent all my Bezos money, you can stop writing me love letters now”), or overly broad (“Thank you, everyone in France and the rest of Europe and the planet Earth, living, dead, or not yet conceived, I love you all and invite you to breakfast on Tuesday”).

  I’ll point out that if you read the dedication, you’ll see that Love, Clancy is dedicated to a man I admire and appreciate, Scott Miller, without whom there really wouldn’t be any reason to thank anyone else, because no one would read any of my books except Beyoncé. Scott’s my agent at Trident, which sounds like a toothpaste.

  Sheri Kelton is the CEO of my career, I tell people, and works impossibly hard to get my stock price up. Her official title is manager. She loves me even more than Beyoncé does. Gavin Polone is my unpaid manager—he works tirelessly to find ways to produce my work as movies, television shows, operas, and fourth-grade dance recitals. He also models tracksuits. Thanks to both of you for all you’ve done to help my work become more widely seen and appreciated.

  Thanks, Ed Stackler, for your deft, professional editing, it makes me look smarter than I am.

  Scott Miller tells me how lucky I am to (a) be so delusional and (b) have all of my books, whether they are for younger readers or adults, published by Tom Doherty/Tor/Forge/Starscape. And I do feel lucky, especially with Linda, Lucille, Eileen, Sarah, Kristin, Susan, Kristin, Tom, and all the other hard workers who get behind my writing and push.

  The people who reach out to others and say, “Can we have Bruce come speak to our library? Would Bruce come to our school district? Would Bruce please stop eating all the cookies?” are wonderful humans unless they are members of another species. Thank you, everyone who reacted to the end of Covid restrictions by trying to set up appearances at schools, book events, and dental appointments. I do enjoy meeting people, especially children, who are at the crossroads of love for dogs and books. I so appreciate the invitations and hope to see you all soon! Maybe breakfast Tuesday in France?

  Few people know this, but I did not invent the internet. Early on, though, I was quick to recognize it was worthless for flipping pancakes. I also concluded that it might be useful in providing ways for people to connect with my work and to hack into my bank account. Mindy Wells Hoffbauer, Jill Enders, Julia Hart, Chase Cameron, Elliott Crowe, Breeze Vincinz, and Susan Andrews have all worked to keep people reminded that I do exist and I did eat the cookies. Because of them, there is a secret group of A Dog’s Purpose fans on Facebook (friend Susan Andrews if you’d like to join) and a less secret “fan” page where people can talk about my books, their dogs, my hygiene … whatever is on their minds. I so appreciate their work.

  Thank you, Olivia Pratt, for keeping the boat afloat in 2020–21, and thank you, Lisa Michie, for swimming to it. Andrew Solmssen keeps the computers talking to each other but I don’t like what they’re saying.

  Thank you, Sammi Rose, for not being squirrely. Thank you, Theo, Sonata, and Matisse for drinking morning tea, feeding Tucker hot dogs, and leaving me cookies.

  The people at Apogee, especially Marlene Passaro and Betty Bennett, invented really cool electronic gizmos for me to use to dictate early drafts of my novels. That’s right, “gizmos,” sorry to be so technical with my jargon. But they’ve saved me a lot of typing, so my fingers thank them.

  Thank you, Dr. Deb Mangelsdorf, for being my go-to for all questions about veterinary medicine, and for physically dragging me to a passing grade in geometry.

  You know how your true friends are those you can call at three o’clock in the morning to come bail you out of jail? Well, I don’t have any of those. But what I do have are friends who have always encouraged me when my path became steep, rocky, narrow, or led too often to Dunkin’ Donuts. I can’t possibly remember everyone, but if I were to load a lifeboat I’d have to at least include Robert Schaumburg, Henry Cox, Andy and Jody Sherwood, Diane and Tom Runstrom, Tim Whims, Gary Goldstein, Diane Driscoll, Margaret Howell, David Leinberger, Robin and Barb Foster, Amy Ephron, Alan Rader, Leslie Rockitter, Carolyn Pittel … okay, the boat’s overloaded. Turns out that when I asked myself who has been really, really supportive, a gusher of names came back. I can’t name or even think of everyone, but if I haven’t told you lately how much I appreciate how you’ve had my back all this time, then shame on me. I’ll thank you personally in France on Tuesday.

  Thank you, Samantha Dunn, for being an astounding talent, and for featuring me in all the publications you edit, and for allowing Jimmy and Ben to help me win the Super Bowl.

  I wouldn’t get very far in life without my family. My older sisters, Amy and Julie Cameron, have consistently forced people to read my books. My parents, now deceased, did everything they knew to do back when I wasn’t selling anything I wrote, and they continued to help me when that changed. My children show up for events, buy books, and reproduce. Thank you, Georgia and Chelsea, James, Gage, Gordon, Sadie, Arlo, Eloise, Garret, and Ewan, for giving me the reason why life is so good. Thank you for your service, Chase, and I look forward to expanding the family soon. Speaking of family, thank you, Evie, for loaning me your daughter, and to Ted, Maria, Maya, Ethan, and Jakob for inviting me in. Thank you, cousin Jen, for getting that I got it. All my other cousins, nieces, nephews—I’m not going to name you but I love you all.

  Teachers, librarians, and space aliens who read my books to students or assign my books to be read: thank you very much. I’d send cookies but I involuntarily ate them.

  Finally: the main reason I have a Hollywood career isn’t because I look like a young George Clooney. It’s because there’s this woman, Cathryn Michon, my partner in life, who has worked so tirelessly by my side. Actually most of the time she’s across the room; I’m speaking metaphorically, here. We have one of those relationships where we support each other in every way. She directs, acts, produces, writes, and stars in movies. I stand by craft services and eat. See? Support. We’ve been business partners since around the time I was named People’s Sexiest Man in Bruce’s Apartment. I’m so grateful for all you do, Cathryn. “Thank you” seems an inadequate sentiment here, but you know how I feel.

  By W. Bruce Cameron

  A Dog’s Purpose

  A Dog’s Journey

  A Dog’s Promise

  Emory’s Gift

  The Dogs of Christmas

  A Dog’s Perfect Christmas

  The Dog Master

  A Dog’s Way Home

  A Dog’s Courage

  THE RUDDY McCANN SERIES

  The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man

  Repo Madness

  HUMOR

  A Dad’s Purpose

  8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter

  How to Remodel a Man

  8 Simple Rules for Marrying My Daughter

  FOR YOUNGER READERS

  Bailey’s Story

  Bella’s Story

  Cooper’s Story

  Ellie’s Story

  Lacey’s Story

  Lily’s Story

  Max’s Story

  Molly’s Story

  Shelby’s Story

  Toby’s Story

  Lily to the Rescue

  Lily to the Rescue: Two Little Piggies

  Lily to the Rescue: The Not-So-Stinky Skunk

  Lily to the Rescue: Dog Dog Goose

  Lily to the Rescue: Lost Little Leopard

  Lily to the Rescue: The Misfit Donkey

  Lily to the Rescue: Foxes in a Fix

  Lily to the Rescue: The Three Bears

  About the Author

  W. BRUCE CAMERON is the #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of A Dog’s Purpose, A Dog’s Way Home, and A Dog’s Journey (all now major motion pictures), The Dog Master, A Dog’s Promise, the Puppy Tales for young readers (starting with Ellie’s Story and Bailey’s Story), The Dogs of Christmas, The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man, and others. He lives in California. You can sign up for email updates here.