Rocket.
Already in the story.

Rocket did not wait for Dustin to appreciate the service.

In the hotel room, the ball kept going under the furniture. Sometimes Rocket dropped it on the computer instead. It was slobbery. There was not enough room. Dustin wanted to sleep in. Rocket was getting up at five.

The journal contains all of this. The love did not cancel the annoyance. The annoyance did not cancel the next walk.

Dustin wanted Rocket to have somewhere to run and play until he was tired enough that they could both get what they wanted: a good day for the dog, and a little more sleep for the human.

Meanwhile, the ball required assistance. Again.

Months later, Dustin found the words for what Rocket had been doing:

“let's say rocket saved me by keeping me up even when i was mad about it”

There is room in that sentence for the mornings as they actually felt. Being kept up could be irritating. A request to play could arrive when Dustin was tired, cranky, or trying to finish something. Rocket did not become easier to live with just because the story eventually acquired a beautiful title.

He still wanted his ball.

In January, the day had walks before work and after it, a lunchtime visit, and evenings Dustin wanted to spend with him. In April, Rocket rode quietly in the U-Haul while belongings came back from Iowa. By August, their ball game had a familiar rhythm: kick, retrieve, wait while Rocket chose exactly where to put it, then kick again.

About thirty seconds for the placement decision. The record is quite specific.

Some evenings, Rocket was asleep on the floor beside the couch. In another moment, he was wagging his tail while Dustin laughed at a screen.

The story includes those rests too.

How to save a life, according to this particular dog’s very unofficial record: keep asking to go out. Bring the ball back. Require someone to get up when they would rather stay put. Then, eventually, take a nap nearby.

Dustin gets to say what that saved.

Rocket gets another throw.