Once Minnie was clean, Marcus, with a strong but gentle hand, scooped up Matthew and headed toward the villa.

Matthew, a mix of sheepish pride and affection, rested his head on his dad's shoulder, his fingers unable to resist reaching out to pet Minnie once more.

Downstairs, Melissa had slipped into more comfortable clothes and joined them, just as Matthew began to protest-why couldn't Minnie dine with them? Marcus, ever the patient explainer, tried to lay out the facts gently.

Minnie sat on a chair, wearing an expression of pure innocence, as Matthew made his heartfelt plea.

"But Minnie's part of the family. Why can't she have dinner with us?"

Marcus, lifting an eyebrow, replied, "Minnie's a dog, buddy. Our food isn't good for her. She only eats dog food. And you know she can't sit at the table like we do, or use a fork and knife, right?"

Matthew's eyes, round and earnest, didn't waver. “But you could feed Minnie like you feed me when I was little, couldn't you, Daddy?"

At that, Marcus found himself at a rare loss for words.

In the end, with a droop in his little shoulders, Matthew placed Minnie back on the sofa before shuffling back to the dining table.

Marcus watched the scene unfold and, feeling a twinge of sympathy, offered a compromise. "How about this? After we eat, I'll make a special little table for Minnie. That way, she can have her meals next to us. Sound good?"

Matthew's face transformed with hope. “Really?”

"You have my word," Marcus affirmed, a sincere promise to his son.

Melissa exhaled softly, a blend of fondness and exasperation in her voice. "You're spoiling him."

But Marcus just shrugged, his love for his son clear as he responded, “It's no trouble at all. Besides, Matthew's not in pre-school until later this year. I want to cherish these moments."

Silence was Melissa's acquiescence.

Post-dinner, Marcus, Matthew, and Minnie disappeared into the tool room. There, they didn't just build a dining set for Minnie; they crafted a small bed, too, with Marcus taking the time to smooth down every edge until it gleamed.

Minnie, sensing the bed was her own, leapt onto it with joy, her tail a cheerful flag.

When the creations were complete, Marcus brought them upstairs, sawdust sprinkling from his clothes, a stark contrast to his usually neat appearance.

He approached Melissa, who was poring over a financial report in her post-shower calm.

Casually, amidst the evidence of his handiwork, he said, "I'm thinking of making a cushion and some other things for Minnie. Got any pink fabric?"