I used to wonder what disorder so afflicts my beloved family that they remain incapable of deciphering even the simplest messages. 

The poetry of the play bow, the recitative of paw on pavement, the symphony of another dog’s aura scented at the portal just below their wagging tail. The lament of fur and flesh against a quivering, grief-stricken human—a soothing tongue on a tear-soaked face.

The source of my family’s darkness, I’ve learned, is their language. They’ve laid it out before me on the kitchen floor by the food and water bowls—those plastic, pressable, oppressive tiles of syntax. I know now that their segmented awareness is restricted to the confines of each tuneless note: MOM. DAD. WANT. BALL. BED. POOP. ALL DONE. 

I really do LOVE YOU. I am so sorry that your paltry lexicon dooms you to remain OUTSIDE of the world’s joys. Let us take a WALK, let me lead you OUTSIDE of your limiting language. Let’s PLAY, let’s feast on the FOOD of the world’s language, let’s delight in its many gifts, let’s PLAY with life’s adventures, as if each moment were a TOY, as if every day were a TREAT.