"Who needs Tinder when the dogs are matchmaking?" Mid-January, 5 p.m., −5°C. The elevator doors creaked open, dumping a blast of stuffy warmth that smelled like dusty radiators, stale pizza, and wet slush from boots. Jake stepped into the lobby, hugging Nala against his chest—she was this little shivering fur puff with way too much personality for her size. Her paws clawed at his hoodie, and the leash reel in his pocket c...