“When I Was Human” by Capucine Berney
I have a dream that I’m a human. It’s so normal; it’s spectacular. I do this thing where I walk downstairs from my bedroom to the kitchen, and then I have a snack which I spend more time looking for than eating. I do this other thing, where I go into the T.V. room, and see the couch, and then I sit on it and watch something that I won’t remember by tomorrow night.
Sometimes, the dream spins out of control. Sometimes I’m so human that I’m sitting in a Honda and laughing—just laughing. I don’t know what I’m laughing at, but I’m sitting there and giggling, and I can’t feel my fingertips because I’m not paying attention to them, and there’s hair brushing up against the back of my neck because I must have decided to grow it out, and I can’t stop giggling, and I’m parking the car because it’s all just too much, and I’m shaking and crying, so I call my best friend to tell her what’s so funny and now she’s laughing, too. My best friend calls me later to tell me that she told someone about my funny thing from the car and it made them laugh.
So giggle vibes are hip-hopping all around my world (which is more like a bubble), and then I go home and have a dance party in my room by myself. The party starts off slow because I have to lower One Direction’s voice every time I think I hear a family member coming upstairs. When it’s over I’m so tired that I lay on my bed and I play with technology.
It’s when I’m lying down on my bed that I remember this is a dream. I wake up and my tail’s thumping. My tongue’s flopping. I trot into the kitchen and the humans who work for me say “Come here stray Chihuahua,” and I respond that “My name’s Timothy. I’m not stray, I own you,” but they’re real humans, so they can’t hear me.