Narrative writing: The talking dog

I rose out of my bed lazily, almost smashing my infuriating alarm clock. While I combed my hair, I heard a cheerful voice, “Good morning, Steve!” 

Startled, I looked around, scouring my room to locate the person who just greeted me. I chuckled, concluding that I was hallucinating. I walked towards my dog, who stared at me, and ruffled his fur, “Do you think that I am going crazy?”

“No, I greeted you,” he replied. 

My mouth widened with astonishment, my brain racing with a plethora of questions, rapidly descending into madness, not able to come up with a single explanation. Confounded, and petrified, I let out a faint whisper, “Yo-you, can sp-e-ak?”

“Duh.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. It’s you who started understanding me.”

“How is this possible?”

Exhausted by this tedious conversation, Buster scoffed, “Stop asking questions and enjoy this miracle.”

Ashamed, I gently nodded my head. 

“Let’s go out for a walk.”

“Woof,” he replied.

I tied a leash to his neck and left after changing into a pair of fresh clothes. While sauntering on 23rd Avenue, I stumbled into my therapist. “You missed your appointment today,” she scolded me with ire, “Did you even take your medicine?” 

“I’m sorry, I –,” I was cut off by her before I could give an excuse.

Her eyebrows furled, her eyes looking at Buster’s leash, “Why have you raised your hand like that?”

Confused, I answered, “I’m holding my dog’s leash.”

She was alarmed, “Steve, there is nothing beside you! You are allergic to dogs!”

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