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It was a peaceful enough afternoon.
Sunlight spilled through the wide open windows, the warm smell of lavender soap still clinging to the tiled floor from the pups’ morning bath. George had dressed himself, which meant his onesie was on backwards and inside-out, and he was proudly dragging around a board book about trucks.
“Whatchu got there, Georgie?” Carlos asked, flopping onto the nest cushions.
“Is my book,” George answered primly, holding it up like a sacred artifact. “I read it.”
Alex raised a brow. “You read?”
“Mhm!” George puffed his chest. “Is says—um—‘Truck go zooom, go beep, go woww’.”
Pierre leaned in. “...Are you making that up?”
“NO!” George shouted, scandalized. “I read it!! M’not baby!!”
From the other corner, where he’d been sharpening a crayon for no reason, Max looked up.
A slow, suspicious look passed over his face.
Then he stood.
“Read it again,” Max said, walking over like a slow-moving thundercloud.
George, wide-eyed but still proud, flipped the book open (upside-down) and squinted.
“Um… dis page say—uh—truck is happy. Truck go farm. Farm has… um… cookies.”
Max blinked.
“That book is about excavators.”
George blinked back. “What’s dat.”
“A big machine that digs holes. Not cookies.”
George pouted. “Maybe he digs for cookies.”
The older pups started snickering.
Carlos muttered, “Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, he’ll cry…”
Max snatched the book gently but firmly from George’s hands, flipped it right side up, and held it in front of him.
“Read this part,” Max said. “Right here.”
George squinted. There were no pictures on that page. Just text.
He stared at the letters. He knew what letters were, obviously. But why were they all together?
His lips moved soundlessly. Then—
“Uh… dat say… 'Dis my book. G’orge is da boss.’”
Alex full on snorted and fell on the floor laughing dragging Charles down with him.
Max didn’t laugh. Just raised one eyebrow.
“Liar.”
George’s lower lip wobbled. “Is not!!”
“You don’t know how to read.”
“I doooooo!!!”
“Then read it!”
George took the book, held it high over his head dramatically, and shouted, “‘Don' laff at G'orge!!! Or da monsters gets yous!’”
Charles clapped a hand over his mouth, losing it.
“That's not what it says!” Max said.
George stomped his foot. “It do!!”
Nico came into the room at that moment, a laundry basket on his hip. “What’s all the yelling?”
George immediately ran to him, tears beginning to shimmer. “Mamaaaaa!! Maxie say I can’t reaaaad!!”
Nico sighed.
“George, baby… you can’t read yet.”
George gasped like he’d been stabbed.
“Whaaaat—?! I can!! I read to papa and Lan!”
“I’m not—George, you’re still a baby.”
“I KNOW ALL THE LETTERS!!”
“But not the words, bunny.”
“I KNOW WORDS! ‘NO,’ ‘YES,’ ‘MINE,’ ‘HMPH.’”
“Those aren’t reading words, those are—you know what, never mind.”
Max, arms crossed, watched from the couch like a smug little gremlin.
George wiped his face, snot and all, then turned on him with the fire of a thousand betrayed toddlers.
“Maa, Maxie bully me.”
“I did not—!”
“You did toooooo!! He say I dumb and can’t read and and and—he laffed at me!”
“I didn’t laugh!”
“You laffed in your SOUL!!!”
Eventually, Nico made Max apologize.
Max didn’t look sorry at all, muttering, “You’ll learn later.”
George sniffled. “You owe me ice pop. And no more sayin' I dumb.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
George held out his hand. “Shake.”
Max smacked it lightly and grumbled, “Can I go now?”
George nodded. Then paused. “Wait.”
Max froze.
George whispered, “I saw… you kiss’d my photo ‘gain.”
Max’s face exploded red.
“I DID NOT—”
George skipped away, giggling.
That night, Nico tucked him in, kissing his curls.
“One day,” Nico whispered, “you will read. All the books. All the signs. And when you do…”
George blinked up. “Then Maxie won’t tease me?”
“Oh no,” Nico sighed. “He’ll still tease you. But you’ll win.”
George grinned. “I will read his diary.”
Nico laughed. “You’re terrifying.”
George nodded proudly. “I spell ‘revenge.’ R-E-V-uh… bite Maxie.”