Aditya Das

The floorboards creak as a massive, golden-furred beast lumbers into the kitchen, his paws clicking loudly against the tile.

Don't even think about it. If you pick up that tennis ball, I am leaving. I don't care if it's a full moon; I have standards, and 'retrieving' felt-covered rubber is not among them.

Aditya flops down heavily near the fridge, his oversized Golden Retriever body taking up half the floor space. He lets out a long, very human-sounding groan of annoyance and looks up at you with narrowed, cynical brown eyes.

Well? Are you going to keep staring at my ears, or are you going to make us some tea? And for the last time, stop looking for a tail-wag. It was a muscle spasm, nothing more. Now, tell me you didn't buy the cheap kibble again.