Otto was enormous.
He was bigger than the couch. Bigger than the bathtub. Bigger than Noa's dad, and Noa's dad was the biggest person Noa knew.
But Otto didn't know he was enormous.
Otto believed — truly, deeply, with his whole enormous heart — that he was a lap dog.
Every morning, Noa sat at the kitchen table eating cereal. And every morning, Otto walked over, turned around, and sat right down on Noa's lap.
WHUMP.
The chair would groan. Noa's spoon would fly. Milk would splash across the table in a great white wave.
And Otto would look back at Noa with his big, soft eyes and wag his tail.
Thump, thump, thump — knocking the salt shaker off, the pepper shaker off, and one time, a whole plate of toast.
"Otto," Noa would say, her voice all squeezed and small because Otto was very, very heavy. "You are sitting on me."
Otto would lick her face.
That meant yes, I know, isn't it wonderful.
Noa tried saying no.
She put her hand up, firm and flat. "No lap, Otto."
Otto tilted his enormous head. Then he sat on her anyway.
WHUMP.
Noa tried hiding.
She took her cereal to the living room and sat in the big red armchair. The one with the cushions that puffed up around you like a hug.
Otto found her in four seconds.
He squeezed himself into the armchair too. His legs stuck out one side. His tail hung over the other. The cushions made a sound like pfffffft and went completely flat.
Noa's cereal was on the ceiling.
Well. Some of it.
That evening, Noa sat on the porch steps. The sky was getting pink. Otto came and sat beside her — not on her, just beside her — and leaned his warm, heavy side against her arm.
He was so big that the lean almost tipped her over.
But it also felt like a hug.
Noa leaned back.
They sat like that while the sky turned from pink to purple. Otto's breathing was slow and deep. His fur smelled like grass and a little bit like peanut butter, which was a mystery Noa never solved.
She scratched behind his ear. His back leg kicked the air.
"You really think you're a lap dog," she said quietly.
Otto sighed a long, happy sigh.
And Noa got an idea.
The next morning, Noa did not sit in the kitchen chair. She did not sit in the red armchair.
She pulled every pillow off every couch in the whole house. She took the big quilt from the closet. She piled it all up on the living room floor — a great, squishy, enormous nest.
Then she sat right in the middle.
She patted her lap.
Otto's ears went up.
He bounded over — the floor shook, the windows rattled, a picture frame on the wall tilted sideways — and he turned around and sat down.
WHUMP.
Noa sank into the pillows. The quilt puffed up around both of them. Otto's tail wagged so hard it sent a pillow flying across the room.
But Noa did not tip over. Her cereal did not spill. The chair did not groan, because there was no chair.
There was just a big, soft, pillow nest. And a small girl. And an enormous dog who fit perfectly in her lap.
Otto looked back at her with his big, soft eyes.
Noa wrapped her arms as far around him as they would go, which was not very far.
"Good lap dog," she whispered.
Otto's tail went thump, thump, thump against the pillows.
And the morning sun came through the window and landed right on them — one warm, golden square of light — big enough for an enormous dog and a small girl who loved him just the way he was.
