After that, she called him her “Dream Bouncer.” She said when Tank was near, the bad dreams couldn’t sneak in. And for the first time in months, our apartment was quiet at night.
But peace is fragile when people don’t understand what they see.
I looked over at Tank, lying beside Leila as she drew pictures of him chasing away monsters. Her hand rested on his back. His tail thumped gently in his sleep.
I wasn’t giving him up. Not this time.
The next morning, I started making calls—tenant rights, pet policies, emotional support exemptions. A woman named Marcy from a local shelter told me to fight back.
“Start a petition,” she said. “If your neighbors support you, management will have a harder time pushing you out.”
So I did.
Clipboard in hand, I knocked on doors. Some were skeptical—they’d seen Tank’s size, heard the rumors. But others smiled knowingly.
Mrs. Patel from the third floor told me how Tank had nudged her grocery bag back toward her when it fell—without stepping on a single egg. Mr. Alvarez, the retired bus driver, said Leila and Tank made his mornings brighter.
By evening, I had nearly half the building’s signatures.
When I read it aloud, Leila’s face crumpled. “No one can take Tank,” she cried. “He’s family.”
I held her close. “We’re not giving up, sweetheart. I promise.”
That night, Tank did something strange. Around midnight, he stood up and paced to the door, ears alert. A moment later, there was a knock.
It was Greg, a quiet man from two floors down. He handed me a stack of papers.
“Thought you might need these,” he said.
Inside were handwritten notes—from parents, seniors, even the maintenance guy—all vouching for Tank. Gentle. Friendly. Part of the community.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. For the first time, I felt hope.
Ms. Harper, the property manager, looked over the documents, unreadable.
“I understand your situation,” she said finally, “but rules are rules.”
I met her gaze. “Rules are meant to protect people. Tank is protecting someone—my daughter. He’s saving her.”
Her face softened. “What happens if we get another complaint?”
“Then you call me,” I said. “And I’ll handle it.”
She paused, then sighed. “Fine. You’ve got thirty days to prove this works. After that, we’ll review.”
Relief hit me like a wave. Thirty days wasn’t forever—but it was enough.
And something remarkable happened.
Neighbors who’d once avoided us began stopping by. Kids knocked just to pet Tank, giggling as he rolled onto his back. Someone started leaving treats at our door. Even Ms. Harper dropped by during a surprise inspection—only to end up sitting on the floor, scratching behind Tank’s ears.
Leila glowed. She slept soundly, laughed more, made friends at school. One evening, she came home with a crayon drawing: Tank in a superhero cape.
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