The Wi-Fi at 10 Craven Street had been dead for exactly forty-seven minutes, and the Henderson family was on the brink of a humanitarian crisis.
In the living room, four human beings sat in a semi-circle, united by a profound sense of betrayal. Duncan Henderson, a man whose Friday nights were usually spent yelling at strangers on LinkedIn, was staring blankly at his wife, Gwendoline. He was shocked to discover that she had aged slightly since he last looked up from his laptop in 2022.
At the centre of this psychological wasteland sat Winston, a black mid-size poodle whose entire worldview had just been violently upended. With his sharp intellect and tailored coat, he now resembled a disgraced statesman weathering a political coup. His calm empire had collapsed, leaving him to endure the sudden, terrifying reality of unmediated human interaction.
Usually, Friday nights followed a strict, comforting protocol. The humans would sit perfectly still on the furniture, their faces illuminated by small glowing rectangles, effectively rendering them inanimate objects that occasionally dropped popcorn. Winston would park his chin on Duncan’s slipper and sleep for eight uninterrupted hours.
Tonight, however, the ecosystem was broken.
Gwendoline was turning her smartphone over and over in her hands like a prehistoric hunter trying to coax fire out of a damp stone. ‘I tried toggling the aeroplane mode,’ she said, her voice hollow. ‘Twice. I even blew into the charging port. Nothing.’
Winston trotted over to Gwendoline, wagging his tail tentatively, and nudged her knee. Gwendoline gave him a sudden, frantic scratch behind the ears that was far too energetic for this time of night. Winston winced, his curls flattening. This was wrong. This was restless energy.
From the depths of the armchair, seventeen-year-old Fiona let out a groan so laden with existential dread that it sounded like a dying whale. ‘My streaks,’ she whispered to the ceiling. ‘My TikTok drafts. I’m literally going to become socially extinct by midnight.’
Winston spun around, alarmed by the noise, and shuffled over to Fiona to investigate if she was dying. But as he approached, Fiona threw her arms up in despair, nearly clipping him on the nose. Startled, the poodle backed up, his claws clicking anxiously on the hardwood floor.
‘Don’t be so dramatic, Fiona,’ Duncan snapped, though his own left eye was twitching. ‘When I was your age, if we wanted entertainment, we looked out of the window.’
Duncan stood up and began pacing the rug. This was the final straw for Winston. A human walking around at 9:00 PM without a lead in their hand was a flagrant violation of the household codes. Winston tried to follow him, but Duncan kept changing direction. The poodle tried to sit by the television, but fourteen-year-old Callum was currently rocking back and forth on the floor nearby, experiencing physical withdrawal symptoms from his PlayStation.
Winston stood in the dead centre of the room, panting slightly. He looked to the left; Duncan was muttering about fibre-optic cables. He looked to the right; Gwendoline was trying to start a game of Twenty Questions about a badger. There was no safe zone. His calm, predictable pack had transformed into a cage of twitchy, unpredictable primates. He could not find his place. He squeezed himself under the sideboard, pressing his black nose against the wall, hoping the madness would pass.
‘Right,’ Duncan said, sitting back down and leaning forward to look Callum dead in the eye. ‘Son. Tell me about your hopes. Your dreams. What keeps you awake at night?’
Callum looked terrified. ‘Lag,’ he said instantly. ‘And the fact that you’re looking at me like you want to harvest my organs.’
Before Duncan could defend his parenting style, a sharp, digital beep echoed from the hallway. The router’s flashing amber light had suddenly transformed into a solid, glorious, glowing blue. The transformation was instantaneous. The heavy cloak of familial bonding evaporated into thin air.
‘The Wi-Fi!’ Callum screamed, lunging over the coffee table like a rugby player securing a loose ball.
‘Out of my way!’ Fiona shrieked, her thumbs already moving at the speed of sound across her small screen.
Duncan dived for his laptop, his face instantly illuminated by the blue glow of ninety-seven unread emails. Gwendoline collapsed back onto the sofa, happily losing herself in a video of an adorable poodle wearing a bright yellow raincoat.
Winston blinked, creeping out from under the sideboard. The frantic pacing had stopped. The terrifying eye contact had ceased. The humans had returned to their frozen, glowing states, once again ignoring each other completely. With a deep, canine sigh of relief, the poodle trotted back across the rug. He curled up into a tight circle, rested his chin firmly on Duncan’s slipper, and went to sleep. Everything was beautifully, cheerfully back to normal.
