The morning sun glared through the curtains as I sipped coffee, my dog, Biscuit, launched himself into the living room like a turbocharged marshmallow. His pink nose twitched. A squirrel had invaded the backyard. ‘Nope,’ I said, but Biscuit was already lunging at the window, paws slapping the glass. The squirrel paused mid-scurry, tail flicking like a metronome. Biscuit barked—a sound akin to a kazoo being strangled by a toddler. I dropped my coffee. It splashed onto the rug, pooling into a brown puddle that smelled like regret. The squirrel taunted me, nibbling a acorn with the nonchalance of a CEO. Biscuit’s tail wagged so hard it created a breeze that knocked over my plant. ‘Stop it!’ I yelled, but he was a blur of fur, tearing through the house like a demented tumbleweed. He burst outside, yipping. The squirrel fled. Biscuit stood triumphantly in the dirt, holding a stick like it was a trophy. I sighed. The stick had a hairball and a leaf. Later, he brought it to me, head tilted, eyes wide. I took it. The leaf fluttered. We sat in silence. Then he sneezed. Confetti of dirt rained down. I laughed. The squirrel, meanwhile, was busy writing a memoir titled ‘The Day I Outwitted a Manchild.’
