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It was a normal Tuesday morning, which, for an Australian Shepherd like me, means a full day of barking at squirrels, herding my owner’s slippers, and looking majestically out the window. My name is Banjo, and I am, if I do say so myself, an expert in all things magnificent and canine. But this particular Tuesday was about to be anything but normal.

My human, Sarah, had been acting a little strange. She was hovering around me, talking in that high-pitched, cooing voice she uses when she gives me treats. “Just a few more hours, Banjo,” she’d whisper, “just a little longer.” I had no idea what she meant, but it sounded like bacon, so I wagged my tail enthusiastically.

Later that afternoon, a very different kind of sound filled the house. Tiny, high-pitched squeaks. They were coming from the little bed in the corner of the living room, a place that, until now, had been dedicated to my naps. I crept closer, my nose twitching with curiosity. And that’s when I saw them.

They were small, furry, and completely helpless. A whole litter of them, wriggling and squeaking. The next few weeks were a blur of new smells and sounds. There was no more sleeping in. Every day was an adventure, a new lesson in patience and, frankly, in not stepping on the small, wiggly things.

One sunny afternoon, Sarah decided it was time for a family photo. She carried all nine of my little bundles of joy outside and lined them up on the grass. They were squirming, of course, but she managed to get them all settled in a perfect little row. It was a beautiful sight. My little ones, all ten of them, were finally out in the sun, bellies up and relaxed.

I sat proudly behind them. My tail thumped against the ground as I posed for the camera. Look at them. They’re all mine. The little black and white one on the end, the fluffy brown and white one in the middle, each one of them was a masterpiece. I couldn’t stop grinning. My heart, a thing usually filled with pure, unadulterated joy for a squeaky toy, was now overflowing with love for these tiny, perfect creatures.

That day, as the sun warmed my back and a slight breeze rustled my long fur, I realized something profound. Being a good boy is great. Chasing a ball is fun. But nothing, not a single thing in the world, compares to the feeling of being a dad. All nine of them. My pack. My little family. And I knew, from that moment on, that my job was to protect them, to teach them to be as magnificent as I am, and to make sure they get all the belly rubs they deserve.