We Have No Words
A short story. Narrated by pandemic puppies.
They brought us home to homes they barely left. They wanted to play all day. They wanted to snuggle all night. They wanted something new and light and hopeful and they saw it in us. They’d worry about the after…well, after. For now, this was right. This was what they wanted and needed. For now, for sure.
They bought us beds and food and toys and blankets and treats. So many toys. So many treats. And cozy crates to sleep in. They didn’t mind getting up with us in the middle of the night — again, and again, and again, fumbling with shoes and lights — because they had nothing better to do. They could sleep late, go to school in their pajamas. They had no jobs to go to anywhere but downstairs or upstairs at home.
They had ten days’ worth of food around at all times and toilet paper enough for a small island nation; we sometimes pulled with our baby teeth at the plastic on the bundles they had no room for in the bathroom and so had stowed in far corners of their apartments and houses. “Don’t eat that,” they’d say. “Silly pup.”
They named us Roxy (which we’ve always thought to be a stripper name) and Kingsley and Ruby and Honeyduke (some Potter thing). They introduced us to their friends on Zoom and told everyone they’d never wanted one of us before but now, well, things were different. Now they had…
