I’m asleep the first time the strangers come, my head comfortably situated in the water bowl, my ears floating in the water. They lift me out of my house and hold me, nuzzling close and petting me eagerly. I squirm and wiggle and wag my tail, coincidentally
calling to their attention my best talents. The squirming, wiggling, and wagging got the job done, and they got out a bottle of funny red stuff and put it on my toe. I wasn’t just any puppy, no;
I had a red toe. When they come back, my red-painted nail makes me stand out from my siblings. They pick me out and take me home with them for good, and that’s just the beginning.
Every day when I wake up, eat, nap, go to work and nap, come home, eat, and nap, I remember that I’m not any puppy. Even those long, long nights, filled with nightmares in which the squirrels always get away, I remember I’m a part of a family, and the
luckiest puppy in the world.
