There is cuteness fever at our house. I know, it sounds awful, like a cloying perfume or too-sweet dessert that hurts your teeth just to look at it. But there's no avoiding it. Neighbors have eagerly asked to visit, like the ten-year-old boy who comes by randomly every couple days for an infusion of--puppies.
Juno is a fluff ball and a little clumsy; her sister Lucy is lean and adventurous. They weight about 14 pounds, still light enough to pick up, still small enough to occupy a kitchen and allow room for a human. The fluff ball sits at your feet and gazes up companionably. Even though she may not like being held, I love to put my face in her fur. The adventurer claims each new object as a chew-toy; she will run just for the hell of it. The two of them wrestle fearlessly, biting on ears and cheeks, knocking each other down at full speed.
Sweetest of all is the way C gets all gooey around them: sitting on the ground, gathering one or both onto his lap, cooing and laughing at their silliness. Ordinarily, it's hard to know what brings him joy. Many situations cause anxiety; internet exchanges invite insightful teenage disdain or fervent agreement. But cute puppies can only evoke love: for their soft fur, their bumbling gait, and their wonder at this world where everything is new and ripe for play.
Therapy for the soul.
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