The day I figured out why everyone looks happy when they see me

Mom said we were going to Brooklyn Bridge Park for pictures. I brought three tennis balls just in case.

The subway smelled like hot metal and someone's sandwich and wet shoes. I sat on Mom's feet the whole time because the train was loud and my body wanted to be small. But then we got off and I could smell the river. Water always makes everything better.

We walked to this big open space with grass that wasn't quite grass and dirt that wasn't quite dirt. Behind us were all these tall buildings that looked like the toys I'm not allowed to chew. Mom kept saying "sit" and "stay" and pointing this black thing at me. I sat. I stayed. But there was so much happening.

A man jogged by and smiled at me. Then a lady with a baby stroller stopped and waved. Then two kids pointed and one said "golden retriever!" like I was the best thing they'd seen all day. Every single person who walked past looked at me and their face changed. Got softer. Got happier.

That's when I figured it out. I don't have to do anything special. I don't have to catch the ball perfect or sit extra good or carry Mom's whole purse. I just have to be here. People see me and remember something good. Maybe their dog from when they were little. Maybe how it feels to be excited about simple stuff.

Mom got her pictures. I got to understand why strangers always want to pet me. Fair trade.

Tomorrow we're going back to Central Park. Mom said something about "headshots." I don't know what that means but I'm bringing four balls this time.