⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣤⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣴⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢹⣿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣹⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⢻⣄⣀⣠⣀⣤⣤⣀⡀⣿⣆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣴⢏⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣿⣿⣦⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣾⣿⣿⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⣤⣶⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠛⠛⠛⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠛⠻⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠈⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣦⣤⣀⣀⣽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⣀⣀⣤⣿⣿⣿⣇⠀⠀
⠀⠘⣿⡿⣼⢿⣯⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡯⡝⣎⢿⣻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠂
⠀⠀⠀⢷⢮⡵⢣⢯⣜⣳⢻⣞⢧⡛⠴⣉⠰⣀⢆⡱⣺⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⣤⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣤⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⣠⣴⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣮⣵⣄⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⢾⣻⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⡀⠀
⠀⠸⣽⣻⠃⣿⡿⠋⣉⠛⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣏⡟⠉⡉⢻⣿⡌⣿⣳⡥⠀
⠀⢜⣳⡟⢸⣿⣷⣄⣠⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⣤⣠⣼⣿⣇⢸⢧⢣⠀
⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣶⣶⣾⣶⣶⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣧
⣿⣿⣿⠿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠿⣿⡿

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡞⠹⣦⠰⡞⠙⣆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢴⠀⠀⣿⠐⡇⠀⢻⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⣿⢸⡇⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡸⣄⠀⣿⣨⡇⠀⣟⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⢠⡶⠚⠉⢁⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡈⠉⠙⠲⣤⡀⠀
⢀⡶⠋⠀⢀⠔⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠑⢄⠀⠈⠻⡄
⣾⠁⠀⠀⠈⠀⣠⣂⡄⠀⠀⠀⣔⣢⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⢹
⡇⠀⠀⢠⣠⣠⡌⠓⠁⠀⡀⠀⠙⠊⡄⢀⣀⠀⠀⢸
⢷⡀⠀⠈⠁⠁⠀⠀⠈⠓⡓⠂⠀⠀⠉⠈⠁⠀⠀⡼
⠈⠳⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡞⠁
⠀⠀⢾⠀⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣴⢸⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠈⢻⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡾⠊⠁⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠘⣇⢀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡀ ⣷⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⣼⠉⠉⠙⠛⠛⠛⠛⠉⢹⣁⠟

Dogs are basically four-legged opinions with tails that act like Wi-Fi signals, constantly connecting to emotions no one else can see, while their brains run on a mix of ancient instincts and whatever invisible agreement says that socks are the most important objects in the universe. One second they’re staring at a wall like it just told them a secret, the next they’re sprinting across the room because a leaf outside moved suspiciously, clearly part of a larger conspiracy involving the mailman and the vacuum cleaner. Their sense of time is completely made up—five minutes feels like a year, but a whole afternoon vanishes if there’s a nap involved—and somehow they remember the exact sound of a treat bag from three houses away while forgetting why they walked into a room. They communicate in a language made of head tilts, dramatic sighs, and the occasional spin in place like they’re buffering reality, and yet it all makes perfect sense to them.

Clouds drift across the sky like quiet thoughts that forgot where they were going, stretching and folding into shapes that almost make sense until you look too closely and they slip away again. They gather in soft heaps, then unravel into long, thin whispers, as if the sky is practicing handwriting it will never finish. Sometimes they look heavy enough to fall, like they’re carrying secrets too big to hold, and other times they’re so light they seem like echoes of something that already disappeared. You can stare at them for a while and start seeing patterns—faces, animals, entire scenes—and just when your brain convinces you it understands, the wind nudges everything slightly out of place and the meaning dissolves. It’s like watching a story that refuses to be told properly, constantly rewriting itself in slow motion. And even though they never stop moving, they never seem in a hurry either

Hi, I'm with the Donald Trump Administration and I am a part of the outreach program TOUCHING CHILDREN, EMOTIONALLY* and I wanted to let you know that we understand what 6 7 means. Please stop sending this intolerable thing to other people, otherwise ICE will be at your door.

*We were forced to add this bit after the church said we were copying them.