Let me tell you about my middle dog. The one who is neither the biggest nor the smallest, but is without question the smartest of the trio. He is a master of psychology, a subtle manipulator of moods, and a canine connoisseur of soft landings. He is what I lovingly call a curmudgeon crusted marshmallow.

At first glance, he is all side-eye and sighs. He grumbles when you ask him to move. He raises one disapproving eyebrow when the other dogs get too bouncy. He sometimes stares at me like I have personally ruined his day by existing within his peripheral vision. He has the soul of a middle-aged film critic who thinks everything peaked in 1997.

But here’s the twist. Beneath the sass and the snark is the softest pink belly in the game. He rolls over with perfect timing, tail swishing with faux disinterest, and lets you in. He’s practically saying, I don’t need this. I’m just letting you. Because I’m generous like that. And of course, I fall for it every time. I rub that pink belly like it’s a sacred ritual. Because it is.

He doesn’t seek affection like the other dogs do. He grants it. Which somehow makes you want it even more. He plays hard to get and wins. He’s got emotional game and he knows it.

He reminds me of Veronica Mars. Not just because he’s the underdog with a brain. But because he’s got that gritty, guarded exterior and a heart made of soft, secret sweetness. Fans once saved that show by mailing marshmallows to the producers. That’s exactly what my dog is. A curmudgeonly, sarcastic, slightly aloof marshmallow who knows how to make you beg for more of his affection.

He doesn’t wag his tail with reckless joy. He offers a single wag, maybe two, with all the weight of a performance review. But when he leans into you with that head nuzzle and sighs like you’ve finally passed the test, your heart melts faster than a marshmallow in hot cocoa.

He’s got layers. He’s complex. He’s emotionally strategic. He’s smarter than the average dog and at least half the humans I know.

And somehow, by pretending not to care, he gets you to care even more. That, my friends, is a life truth from the dog couch. The aloof ones often have the squishiest centers. And the ones who act like they don’t need love? They’re usually the ones who know exactly how to get it.

Watch out for the pink belly. It’s a trap. And it works every single time.