The dog knows when I’m lying about the lockout

I just locked myself out of my own flat again—this time with a key I’d sworn was in my pocket. The dog didn’t bark. He just looked at me like I’d forgotten how to stand upright. There’s something about the way he reads my shoulders that makes me feel guilty even when I haven’t done anything wrong. Old shoes, new shoes—doesn’t matter. The lock doesn’t care. But the dog? He knows.