blogging · Fiction · Happiness · Poetry · Short Story · writing

Milk And Cookies

Milk and cookies were always his favourite,
A given on cold winter nights
Sitting by the capricious fire that crackled happily,
He would slowly chew the cookies in quiet delight.

When he had eaten them all and drunk the milk,
He would snuggle down further, and look up at the ceiling;
As if he were content and bereft of care
And yet on some profound idea reflecting.

Year after year, I baked those cookies and poured him some milk.
And then one year, I found myself alone.
I gazed wistfully at the milk and at the cookies
And was startled by a scratching sound from the window.

I looked over in surprise, and opened the latch,
And saw a chocolate coloured pup, a few days old
Making whimpering noises and tilting his head to one side
Just like he used to do in the cold.

For a bewildering second, it seemed he had returned
And I opened the window fully, filled with wonder.
He was a different dog, I realized
But was just like him, him in miniature.

I scooped him up from the window sill
And brought him close to the comforting fire
I patted him and stroked his grass-like fur
And he lay down tired.

My gaze fell on the milk and cookies, untouched, uneaten,
And then on his photograph on the mantelpiece.
And then, back on his doppelganger,
And then, back on the milk and cookies.

Perhaps he hadn’t wanted me to be alone this year, I thought.
And as the snow swirled outside, crisp and white
My new companion sniffed interestedly, wagged his tail,
And chewed the cookies I gave him, in the same familiar delight.

Wishing you a merry Christmas! 🙂


2 thoughts on “Milk And Cookies

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