Magic device helps communication

Sniff-sniff. What's this? New thing on floor. Smells like owner's hands and something... electric? Long, long cord like my leash but no walkies attached, only big flat thing. Sniff more. Poke with nose. Cold and smooth, not food, not toy, not squirrel—disappoint!

But wait, noise from flat thing, like owner's voice but no owner. Interesting! Tap-tap with paw. Lights! More noise. I paw more. It listens! It speaks! Can I speak to owner? Must try.

"Bark! Bark!" I say. Flat thing silent. Try again, "Woof! Ruff-ruff!" Lights blink. It hums. Can it hear me? Oh, what if, what if I can tell owner things? So many things—like love belly rubs, hate bath, squirrels bad, walks good. But how?

Nose boop flat thing again. It makes words. Words like owner talks to tiny glowing box. I bark at it, tail wag because maybe, maybe, it understands. Tail wag more, can't help, exciting! If I talk, will owner know I love love love when we play and when she comes home is best part of day?

Owner comes in—sees me with flat thing. "Oh, what are you doing, buddy?" I wag, I wag, I bark. "I talk! We talk?" She laughs, says something to flat thing. It talks back! She understands it. Must make her understand me too.

She sits, watches. I tap flat thing with paw. It talks! She listens. I try sounds, different sounds. Owner tilts head, like me when confused. But she smiles, tries to understand.

This, this magic! Maybe one day, I tell her everything. For now, I show. Lead her to door, to leash, bark happy. She gets it, "You want to go out?" Yes, yes, yes! More than anything.

We go. I walk, she talks. I listen, she smiles. Magic flat thing back inside, but now I know, maybe, just maybe, we talk more one day. Maybe all dogs talk, all owners listen. Happy. So happy. Love owner. Love walks. Maybe love flat thing too.

I smell it before I see it, a new thing, not a toy, not food, but it smells like my human and something else—electric? It’s lying there, just within paw’s reach, square, shiny. Tail wagging, I nudge it with my nose. It beeps! It speaks! Oh, it’s like the box on the wall that makes my human yell and cheer and sometimes groan. This one is smaller, it fits under my chin as I scoop it up, trotting around, the thing dangling from my mouth.

“Hey!” I bark, the word feels round and full in my mind but it comes out as a sharp yip. Drop it. The shiny box hits the ground with a satisfying clunk. It flickers, lights up, and suddenly—it speaks my language. Or close enough. "Hello!" it chirps. My ears perk up. Can I talk back? I try. “Hello? Play?” It doesn’t throw a ball, but it speaks again, making noises that are soft, questioning. “How can I help you?”

Help? I know this word. Help is when I bring the leash, when I fetch the stick, when I sit still for the tiny human. I wag my tail harder. “Food. Walk. Play!” I bark at it, words tumbling out, the ideas all jumbled together. The box blinks. It’s listening; I can tell.

Then, an idea. “See human!” Yes, that’s what I want. I want to see my human, tell them things. I’ve tried before, with whines and licks and all the body wags I have, but this could be different. This box understands. “Talk human,” I add, my voice eager.

It buzzes, lights twirling. “Calling your human now,” it announces. And then, the magic—I hear it, my human’s voice, coming from the box! “Buddy? Is that you? How are you doing this?”

I bark, loud, happy barks. I’m talking! I’m actually talking to my human! They sound surprised, a little confused, but I hear the smile in their voice. “Good boy, Buddy! Good talk!”

The tail wags can’t stop. They just can’t. Because maybe now, we can really understand each other, with this magic box. Maybe now, I can tell them everything—the important things, like how the mailman is suspicious, and how the cat next door is definitely up to no good, and how much I love those belly rubs, and especially them. Just them. Always them.