I was the smallest. Not just in size, but in spirit, in strength. I was also the last to open my eyes. The last to find my feet.
I was the one whose fur refused to stay flat—spiky black with streaks of gray like ash blown by a careless breeze.
They called me the runt. But I had them.
Eenie, orange and warm like the sunrise that used to creep through our box. He was always cleaning me, even when I didn't want it.
Meanie, the sharp-tongued sister with paws of daggers and the voice of a squeaky sword. She ruled our tiny kingdom with hisses and swats.
And Miney—sweet, scatterbrained Miney. White with black patches and eyes always wide with wonder. Grandma said he looked like a panda. I didn't know what that was, but it sounded important.
And then there was him—our human. The quiet one with soft hands that trembled when he held the bottle. The one who spoke gently even when he was tired. The one who made the world outside the box feel less scary.
There was one night—a blur of movement and noise—when he tried to take us with him.
Into the city.
On a night bus.
Inside a box that smelled of instant noodles and fear.
Miney, of course, nearly got us all killed. He kept trying to sneak out—wiggling under the flap like a worm with legs, meowing loud enough to wake the dead. Every time Daddy pushed him back in, Miney cried like the end of the world was near. I remember Daddy's hands darting, panicked, trying to hush us, cover us, beg us not to ruin this. His voice was a whisper, but his heartbeat was a drum.
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And yet... no one minded.
A woman three rows back smirked behind her phone. A man in a jacket chuckled under his breath. Someone offered a tissue when Meanie sneezed. I think—I think—one of them even slipped Father a candy.
Maybe it was a dream.
But I remember that ride like music. Bumpy, warm, full of breath and heartbeat and crumpled tissues. The way the lights flashed through the slits in the box. How Miney eventually fell asleep half-out, with his little paw dangling like a surrender flag.
Penang smelled different.
It was heavy with salt and sunlight. And them.
Three giants. Three gods.
The first was Daisy.
A beagle made of roundness and joy. She looked like someone had rolled a ball through a bakery and given it ears. Her bark was sloppy. Her breath smelled like old socks. But her heart—oh, her heart—was a soft, thudding teddy bear. She ran at us like a cannonball and I was sure I'd die. I didn't.
Then came Coco.
A labrador. Graceful, golden, jealous. Her tail was a sword and her gaze, a spotlight. She didn't bark—she commented. Often loudly. Especially when Daisy got attention. When they fought, it was a storm of flailing paws and dramatic yowls.
And Sugar.
A toy poodle. Old. Elegant. Light brown curls and narrowed eyes. She didn't bark—she judged. From a corner. At a safe distance. She tolerated us with the air of someone who had once been queen and now lived among peasants. She barked exactly once when Daisy and Coco went to war. Just to remind everyone who was still in charge. No one listened to her, however.
Daddy fed us after the storm.
A syringe filled with warm milk. Rubber nipple against tiny teeth. He fed me first and cradled me last—maybe because I was the smallest. Maybe because I fought the least. I remember his breath. The way it caught when I purred.
Then I curled into the curve of his arm, the sound of dog snores and kitten sighs surrounding me like a lullaby.
That night, the stars blinked through the wooden slats of the window. Miney kicked in his sleep. Meanie grumbled. Eenie covered us all with his body.
And me?
I dreamed of that moment for years.
Even here. Even now.
Even as the cold gnaws at my bones and the shadows curl around my cage like smoke.
Even as the lullaby keeps fading...
I remember.
I remember Daisy's warm bark, Sugar's glare, Coco's dramatic growl—
And the sound of Daddy's heartbeat when I fell asleep.
Because the sound of his heartbeat... was the first thing I ever loved.