USA. The suburbs. Megan invited me to a party.

There was a hat on the table. A small hat. The dog was wearing it.

“She’s three,” Megan said. “Don’t tell her we bought the cheap cake.”

I looked for a child. There was no child. There was a golden dog, seated, receiving guests, as if the house had been built around her patience.

In my country a dog waits by the door and apologizes for the space it takes. Here a dog had a throne, a candle, and a guest list.

They sang. I did not know the dog’s name well enough to sing it, so I hummed the way one hums in a temple when the words are not yours.

The dog permitted this.

Megan put a plate in front of her. No chocolate. This, someone whispered, was the law. I nodded. Every throne has a poison it must refuse.

I bowed to the dog. “Three years. You have guarded this house. The hat is earned.”

Megan wiped her eye and said, “Oh my god, she loves you.”

The dog licked my hand with the gravity of a treaty.

So tell me, America.

When you light candles for a beast that cannot make a wish — who is the party for?

And if the dog is three, and the cheap cake is a secret, why did I feel I had been introduced to the actual head of the household?

The hat is earned.