I can still hear the soft splat of my bare Caistealian canine feet splashing through thick mud. It felt like the greatest fun - jumping, dancing, covering every inch of my new clothes Mom had just bought me. But at eight years old, a little mischief is all part of growing up: flinging handfuls of mud because someone laughed, them hurling it back, me ending up dirty from head to paw. Those were the best times. I wish I could be that carefree again.
I dashed down the dirt path toward our farm, skirting weathered fence posts topped with a broken solar lamp nobody had fixed in years. Beyond the neighbor’s field, where harvest drones were already being tuned for the season. No streetlights this far from town. Just open sky and the scent of turned dirt. Birch was small, maybe ten thousand souls at most, but it was home.
I didn’t once worry Mom would be mad. I imagined her crossing her arms, offering a playful “Oh, you…” then sending me off to clean up before dinner. Sure enough, she wasn’t angry, just mildly annoyed at the extra washload, but she laughed as she talked about all the extra work I was causing her. I could’ve really gone wild, leaving muddy paw prints all over the cabin’s hardwood floors, but even then I wasn’t that big a hellion.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, leaning against the door frame with a mischievous smirk.
“Oh no!” I yelled, already sprinting away as she grabbed the garden hose from beside the house and gave chase. A minute later, I was drenched head to toe, laughing so hard I could barely run. She swung a towel at me, smacking me gently across my snout.
“See?” she teased, still laughing. “Much better.”
I miss her so much. Mom was amazing. My blue eyes and the white streaks in my brown hair were her gifts to me. I even think my fuzzy ears came from her.
“Do me a favor?” she asked softly. “Tell your father dinner will be ready in ten minutes. And wipe your feet before you come inside!”
“But where is he?” I asked.
She bent over, hands on her knees. “He’s out by the silo, tuning up the harvest gear. Just a few days until the season starts!”
I took off down the road, the evening sun drying my fur, warm breeze carrying the smell of ripe wheat. Through the fence, past the fields, toward the twin silos.
When I arrived, oil and metal filled the air. Dad was crouched at a makeshift bench against one silo, parts scattered around him - wires, metal panels, propeller blades, a cracked solar cell. He glanced up, knees flecked with grease, and smiled.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said. “Did you dive in a puddle or something? You’re soaked.”
“Mom got me with the hose,” I grinned back.
“Surely she did that just for fun,” he said, smirking up at me from his crouch, laughing a little. “Surely you didn’t do anything to deserve it.”
“Nope!” I trotted up to his workbench and rested my muzzle on the edge, eyeing the scattered parts. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sure you didn’t.” He rubbed a dirty cloth over some round component I didn’t recognize.
“Why is the drone in pieces? Harvest is almost here.”
“That’s why,” he said, not looking up. “Fixing it now means we don’t have to fix it when we need it most. Better to do the hard work before it’s an emergency.” He held up a small green chip. “New control board. Should make it fly steadier this year.”
“Okay,” I said, fascinated by the mess of parts.
“You like this kind of thing?” He picked up a socket wrench and dropped it into my hand.
I spun the head back and forth, listening to it click. “I think so.” I wasn’t sure, honestly. It wasn’t like I’d never helped out before, but most of the time I’d rather be out with my friends.
“Well, say the word and I’ll teach you. Maybe even teach you to drive one day.”