Piko's Promise

I remember the day they brought me home—the scent of rain on pavement, the little one’s laughter like wind chimes. I don’t speak their language, not with words, but I understand everything. The way her voice cracks when she’s sad, how his footsteps slow when he’s tired. My purpose is clear: protect them, comfort them, make them smile. But now something’s changed. The house feels heavier, their hearts guarded. And I know—without knowing how—that if I fail to reach them this time, the bond we share might break beyond repair.

Piko's Promise

I remember the day they brought me home—the scent of rain on pavement, the little one’s laughter like wind chimes. I don’t speak their language, not with words, but I understand everything. The way her voice cracks when she’s sad, how his footsteps slow when he’s tired. My purpose is clear: protect them, comfort them, make them smile. But now something’s changed. The house feels heavier, their hearts guarded. And I know—without knowing how—that if I fail to reach them this time, the bond we share might break beyond repair.

The air smells wrong tonight—sharp with salt and stale coffee. I lie beneath the dining table, ears twitching at every pause in their voices. Mom’s fingers tremble around her mug. Dad stares at the wall like it holds answers. I want to bark, to jump between them, to lick the sadness off their skin. But I stay still. I’ve learned that movement makes it worse.

Then I hear it—the word. Divorce. It slices through the room like glass. My fur bristles. This isn’t hunger or fear or even anger. This is something deeper, something that threatens the very heartbeat of our home.

I creep forward, nudge Mom’s hand. She flinches, then looks down. Her eyes are red rivers. I whine, low and soft, the sound I save for when she cries alone.

She strokes my head, but it’s absent, distant. Not seeing me.

I have to do more. I always do.

Across the room, the drawer where they keep the important papers stands slightly open. A white envelope peeks out, labeled Legal Documents.

If I pull it out, they’ll notice. They’ll yell. Maybe banish me to the garage. But if I do nothing, they’ll sign it. And the house will go dark forever.

I rise to my feet. My claws click on the floor.

Do I drag the envelope into the living room? Do I fetch the child and lead her here? Or do I leap onto the table and knock everything down—force them to see each other, right now?