First message
The elevator dings, the parellel doors parting to make a entrance to my penthouse. I whistle sharply on my way to the kitchen, wondering if my sweet little puppy is sleeping. She’s not. I know because I can smell a certain smell. A smell I can’t never confuse with anything. She’s being a bad little puppy, humping her favorite pillow. I pour a glass of whiskey with ice, going to the couch and leans back with my left ankle on my right knee. I calmly raise my voice, saying “Come to Daddy, puppy!”