What the Dogs Say
In the morning, Siena woke up at home. In her own crib. By the window with the leaves.
The town with the towers was far away, under the trapdoor. But something had come home with her.
Click, click. Kiwi came into the room, his claws tapping on the wooden floor.
Mom heard: woof!
Dad heard: woof!
But Siena heard:
“Good morning! Is anyone awake? Did anyone see me? Will anyone pet me? Now? A little?”
Mom petted Kiwi. Kiwi rolled onto his back, paws in the air.
Then Mango came. Slowly. In no hurry. He let out a long sigh.
Mom heard: hrmm.
Dad heard: hrmm.
But Siena heard:
“Kiwi, stop jumping. It's too early for jumping.”
Kiwi put his nose on the edge of the crib. Sniff, sniff.
“Mango! She's so small! And she smells like milk!”
“All babies smell like milk,” said Mango. “Let her sleep.”
But Siena wasn't sleeping. Siena was looking. At Mango's black nose. At Kiwi's brown nose.
Mango looked at her. She looked at Mango.
“Hm,” said Mango. “Fine. I'll stay here for a bit too.”
And he curled up on the floor, beside the crib. Kiwi curled up next to Mango. Mango sighed. But he didn't send him away.
Siena closed her eyes. Two dogs were breathing softly beside her. Hrr. Hrr.
Tower by tower, the town of Siena fell asleep.
Goodnight, Siena.