Mystical sad eyes look up from below, brown eyes full of love, wild with newness. A new toy gripped in his teeth, he sniffs gently, and begins to gnaw then flail. He stamps his feet, whamp-womp, and inches forward his eyes darting from mine to the floor, his head snaps back, and a muffled growl escapes past his toy. He drops it, looks at me, and is back on the toy as soon as I stoop. I wrap my fingers around the sticky ball and his head jerks, eyes locked on the point where we intersect. He rocks his weight back, feet skidding gently on the floor, and finds purchase. I tug gently, “Drop it,” I say, an inside joke, inside myself. I release the toy, “Sit,” hesitation, then dropping the toy he sits. I pick it up, and see joy in the sad eyes.