The FLOOR here has DROPPED THINGS on it before. I know because I have licked all of it. Every square. A bacon happened here once. Maybe more than once. This is the best floor of my whole life.
There is a woman. She is small and soft and she moves slow and she keeps her hand low, right at nose height, which is the polite height, the correct height, the BEST height. She smells like flour and butter and a thousand other dinners that already happened and were all incredible. When she opens the tall cold box the good air comes out. The GOOD AIR.
She calls me a good boy. She says it a lot. She drops things ON PURPOSE and then says oops and looks the other way and I LOVE her, I love her so much, she is the finest human that has ever stood at a counter.
My human hugs her for a long time by the door. Their faces do a wet thing. I do not know why the faces get wet but the tails would be wagging if they had tails, I can tell, I can always tell.
She keeps a cookie in her apron. The apron! She reaches in the apron and there it is, the cookie, from NOWHERE, a magic woman who makes cookies appear out of cloth.
We do not come here as much as before. I do not know why. But the floor remembers me and she remembers me and her hand comes down to nose height every single time.
Wait. Wait.
She's reaching in the apron again.