The worn and thinned golden cotton jersey barely veils the stuff he’s made of, let alone hide the rushes of emotions he has about everything around him.
He hasn’t once been asked to retrieve anything, he wonders how he was ever going to prove his worth. He has seen his reflection in a jam jar of water, so unlike that of other happy puppies, he wonders how he was ever going to be loved. He thinks about his feelings and feels his thinking and wonders if everyone else, too, has existential crisis.
Say this, “Come, Alvin, dinner.”
and, his glazed eyes snap into focus, “life is good.”