My tail, usually a thumping drum against the leg of the sofa, was still. My ears, my best assets for hearing the crinkle of a treat bag from three rooms away, were drooped. The world felt… quiet.
It all started this morning. My Human—my sun, my moon, my entire universe—was scrolling through that little glowing box they hold all the time. I rested my head on their lap, my favorite spot, and let out a happy sigh. This was our time. Usually, this is when I get the best ear scratches and a “who’s a good boy?” that makes my heart do a little pitter-patter.
But today, they were looking at pictures of other dogs. Dogs with perfect, fluffy fur, tiny button noses, and ears that stood up just so. Then I heard the words, quiet and sad, not even meant for me, but they hit my floppy ears like a thunderclap.
“He’s not cute like these dogs,” my Human whispered to the empty room. “I guess that means no more kisses for you, buddy.”
My world, once a vibrant canvas of walkies, squeaky toys, and endless love, suddenly turned a gloomy gray. No kisses? But… why? I tried to show them my best side. I sat up straighter, gave them my most soulful puppy-dog eyes, and even offered a paw. My tail gave a hopeful, questioning thump. Thump?
They just sighed and gently pushed my head off their lap.
The rest of the day was a blur of confusion. Was it my snaggletooth that sometimes peeks out? Is my fur not the right color of golden? I caught a glimpse of myself in the shiny kitchen floor. I saw my big, goofy paws, my fur that sticks up in seventeen different directions no matter how much I shake, and my long, happy tongue that loves to give slobbery greetings. Was this… not cute?
I spent the afternoon by the door, my chin on my paws, watching the dust bunnies dance in the sunbeams. Every time my Human walked by, I held my breath, hoping for a kind word, a gentle pat, a kiss. But nothing came.
My heart felt as heavy as the time I tried to carry my Human’s shoe and my favorite squeaky hedgehog in my mouth at the same time. It was a feeling of wanting to show all my love but not knowing how if my best way—kisses—was no longer allowed.
As evening settled in, casting long shadows across the living room, my Human came and sat on the floor next to me. They didn’t say anything for a long time. They just sat, and I rested my head back on their knee, my tail giving a slow, hesitant wag.
Then, they wrapped their arms around me in a big, warm hug. It wasn’t a kiss, but it was close. It was warm and safe and smelled like home.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” they whispered into my fur, and their voice was thick with a feeling I know well: love. “You’re the best boy. You are my best, most handsome, and cutest boy.”
And then, it happened. A soft, gentle press of their lips on the top of my head. It wasn’t a big, slobbery kiss like I usually give, but it was a kiss nonetheless. It was a promise. It was everything.
My tail started its familiar thump-thump-thump against the floor. I nuzzled my head deeper into their embrace, a happy groan escaping my chest. I realized that maybe “cute” is just a word. Maybe it doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone. But the feeling of being loved, of being their dog? That’s a language we both understand perfectly. And it’s worth more than all the kisses in the world. (Though, for the record, I’ll still take them all).
