The key slides into its lock, and a dog’s head begins crowning through an ever-widening door frame. “Hiiiiii~ Biscuit,” Riley sings, but the absolute unit of dog tumbles past his mom and straight into my legs.

We share a laugh between corgi kisses. Riley offers a tiny orange bottle of blue pills for her massive loaf of a dog. Trade accepted.

I read the label out loud, “‘Take three times a day?’ I guess a few missed doses explains me acting like a cranky 25-year-old in menopause, huh?”

My caregiver sheepishly admits, “I snuck…uhh, a few of those titty skittles in your orange juice this morning.”