The box sat on the doorstep;
it was Christmas. The kids
opened the box when they
heard the whining and
scratching. It was a puppy
— a little, brown fur ball.
Can we keep it? Where did
it come from? It has to go
to the dog pound. No, no,
please. Sorry. Placed in a
metal cage the puppy whined
and whined and scratched
and lived in his poop which
mixed with his food. And
one day the little fur ball
was heard from no more,
and it was assumed he was
put down and it was said
it was for the best because
there are too many dogs
anyway. Then one day the
now older children heard
scratching at the door and
when they opened it, there
sat a big, beautiful chocolate
lab; it was the little fur
ball only now a majestic
dog, the very presence of
the God of Dyslexia.