A Litter of Yorkshire Terriers
By D.F. Wharton
Luke was home from another taxing day of teaching. The TV was off but Luke was staring at it anyway. He was unconsciously looking at his reflection in the dark and blank screen. There he was, sitting on his couch, looking at his reflection, not thinking about what he was doing, not thinking about anything. If depression was a room close by, he might enter and sit for a while.
Ruth, his wife, was in the next room—the Kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and reached in and grabbed the open Pepsi can and took a swig of the cold drink and then put the can back and shut the refrigerator door.
The patter of the dog’s paws sounded distinct on the laminate floor. She was a small dog, a yorkie. She walked between the rooms from Ruth to Luke, searching out the humans with beseeching eyes, hoping for a crumb from the master’s table.
Come here, Rose, said Ruth to the dog.
The patter of paws striking against the laminate sounded off at a rapid clip as Rose quickly presented herself before Ruth and sat obediently and submissively—waiting. Luke broke off his reflective yet trance like gaze from the dark glass-like surface of the TV and watched the dog trot off at the master’s bidding. What a simple life, he thought enviously.
Ruth was cooing to the dog and talking to it like it was a human baby.
Rollover, Rose, she said. Good girl.
Ruth gave the dog a piece of bread crust and patted her on the head. The dog was very thankful.
Luke watched and considered. If my principal could only turn me and all the other teachers into a litter of Yorkshire Terriers, he thought, she might be able to feel validated.