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Two Playing Puppies
They are the only ones who wake me. I am the only one who walks them. Two playing puppies with big paws and fur like cotton. Two who found a place to belong. Two who race around the yard all day. From the porch, we can watch them, but they always return with their blue ball.
Their energy explodes. They jump from the couch to the chair. They chase and they sleep and lick your face with their wet tongue and nibble on your toes with their tiny teeth while you sleep. All while being a puppy.
They spend years by your side, until they look like they were colored with gray, drooping skin around their eyes. Woof, woof, woof, they want their blue ball.
They sleep.
When I get too tired and too strained from strenuously studying, when I am the comfy couch amongst so many beds, they still choose me. When there is no one left to talk to. Two who grew old despite their young hearts. Two who comforted and never stopped comforting. Two whose reason was to be with me and me.
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This essay was written using the same format as four skinny trees by Sandra Cisneros from The House on Mango Street.