I can hear them in the other room, but I pull a pillow over my head. I don’t want it to be morning just yet, and two little dogs won’t be able to stir me from my warm bedding. Their tinny toenails are clattering on the hard wood floor in the living room, and then the sound becomes less sharp as they roam onto the kitchen’s linoleum floor.
There is silence, then a loud crash. It must be the skillets on the shelf. The rich, vibrant ringing of the metal is unmistakable. They toenails click all at once. She must have jumped back. I know it is Buttercup and not Wesley because Wesley would have run. They nails are clicking again. I hear her breathing, sniffing, but I know it is my imagination. I’m not quite close enough to hear that.
The nails click louder as they walk into the living room, to my bedroom door, then a loud scratching. I roll out of bed to open the door. They run in with their short tail wagging wildly, and I realize I was wrong. The dogs had won. I was petting them and getting ready to feed them. They had won… this time.
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