Box

“What is that?”

“Your birthday gift, dummy.”

“No, I meant, what is in it?”

“Just open it.”

“Just tell me…”

“Open it.”

“…Fine…What the…why did you get me a..dog…How old do you think I am that I need a puppy for my birthday?”

“You are welcome.”

“It’s going to make a mess in the apartment, and–”

“–It’s a great way for you to learn moderation and not so much of…whatever this inhuman spotlessness this is.”

“Yeah, no, just take the stupid dog back.”

“The stupid dog’s got a name: I named her after you!”

“That’s even worse: return it.”

“Hey, don’t objectify dogs. You can’t just randomly return a dog like you return any old shirt since you found a miniscule hole or something.”

“Then give it to someone else…wait, where the hell are you going?”

“Don’t worry, I will be back before you know it.”

“At least take this stupid dog with you!”

The door shut without meanness, only to entrap a fur ball (but really just a potential disaster) happily panting with a frustrated mind completely puzzled and clueless of what to do with that cardboard box on the table.

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