Nina was a tidy Dalmatian.
Her spots were perfectly spaced, her two red balls always in place, a bowl that shone like a mirror, and three bones buried in the garden, under the apricot tree.
Everything had its place.
Except for one thing.
The carpet in the hallway.
The one with crooked stripes and edges that curled up a little.
It used to lie still, like a good carpet.
But for a few days now… it had started to move.
One morning, Nina found it curled up like a sleeping snake in the hallway.
The next day, it was under the table.
And once, even out in the garden, near Skye’s kennel.
“Are you the one moving it?” she asked Skye.
Skye yawned and replied,
“I only move things that smell like cookies.”
Nina decided to investigate.
That night, she pretended to sleep and left the door slightly open.
Midnight. Silence.
Then… sgrishh sgrishh sgrishh.
The carpet moved. Slowly, toward the exit.
Nina tiptoed behind it.
The rug slipped through the bushes, stepped off the sidewalk, turned the corner… and stopped under the streetlight.
There were other rugs there.
Colorful, long, checkered, or covered in kitten drawings.
They were training.
Yes, really.
A yellow rug was stretching.
A green one was doing somersaults.
And hers — the crumpled, striped one — was learning to fly.
Nina sat silently, watching.
Her carpet, seeing her, stopped mid-air, as if to say:
“Sorry… but I dream big.”
Nina smiled.
She went back home alone, leaving the door open.
The next morning, the carpet was there again.
A little tired, but happy.
And from that day on, Nina never moved it again.
Because some dreams — even if they don’t look quite right — should never be straightened out.
