Food.

I got home last night and stumbled through the door, exhausted after another 26 hour day and sank to my knees, just glad to finally be home, sweet, home.

Cutter and Tug swarmed all over me, licking my face excitedly, rubbing up against me and making odd mewling sounds of happiness.

I collapsed into them, leaning into their yearning, their furry goodness.

I love you guys, I said, trying to hug both of their happily squirming bodies at the same time.

I’m so glad you guys love me, I said, needing them and their affirmation and affection.

The wiggling and wriggling and happy sounds stopped.

Cutter sat up and Tug lay leaning close into him.

Um, we don’t really even like you that much, Cutter said. Tug groaned.

What?, I whispered.

It’s not that you’re a bad guy or anything, Cutter said, it’s just that we like the food better.

Eating is soooo good, Tug said, nodding and looking at his brother.

The food?, I whimpered.

Sure. Think about it, Cutter said. We’re never sure when or if you’ll get home and we’ve been starving all day and you feed us and then we all clamber up into bed and sleep all night long and then when we get up, we’re hungry again and you feed us again. But then you leave and we’re left wondering what if, so, yeah, of course it’s about the food, Cutter said.

Tug was nodding like a bobble-head, Yup, he said.

The food? I whined.

Cutter sat staring at me and then, if dogs could shrug, he shrugged. He pitter patted his paws.

It’s not like we have fingers and can get our own, he said.

Sorry boss, he said.

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