"Milk Teeth"

by Taylor Ward

Milk Teeth

They say that the milk teeth phase is the sharpest a dog’s teeth will ever be. I always found that funny, really, that we’re our most dangerous when our eyes are barely open, when our soft, round noses nestle into the tender bellies of our mothers. That we hurt the most when we need the most. That something so small can apply just a bit too much pressure and then the blood will begin to trickle. 

I was so young when I sank my teeth into you. I was at that phase, my gums ached, my teeth sharp and cutting through the tender flesh. What was I meant to do? I bit you on the thumb while you were playing with me, shoving your hand into my mouth, seeing if I would bite. I did. You yelled so loud that I felt it in my bones. I didn’t understand. I stared at you, shaking.

I am a bad dog.

I had never heard that phrase before. I didn’t know I could be bad at being what I was. I didn’t know something could be bad at existing. I never knew. I began to cement it into my mind, altering my perspective: I am a bad dog.

I was five years old when I bit again. The sharpness of my milk teeth gone, the sweetness of my puppy breath turned sour and rotten. The honeymoon phase had ended with me. I was no longer allowed onto the bed. I slept in a crate with an old blanket.

You brought over a new woman. She smelled like licorice and skunk. It made me itch a bit, my fur bristle. She laughed loudly and wore big, dangly earrings. She had nails that were pink and long—I didn’t know they made people with nails like that. I thought she was an odd thing. She let me chew on her nails, thought it was cute how I nibbled at them, that I was so gentle for something so big. I was a gentle giant. 

She called me a good dog.

I never meant to bite her like I did. I had just gotten used to chewing on her pretty pink nails that I had never thought she wouldn’t have them, that they’d be soft and tender like yours are. My tooth went straight through her nail. 

That was the first time you hit me.

I am a bad dog.

The last time I bit I was ten years old. My head became cloudy and fuzzy, familiar things feeling less familiar. I would cry in the night and you would sometimes pet me. Other times you would shout at me to shut up. Your flippancy was something I would always remember. My love for you despite it all was something I was incapable of changing.

You had a pup of your own by then. She had curly hair and chunky little arms, a mouth full of crooked, sharp little teeth. I thought she was sweet. I never meant to bite her. 

Her milk teeth were as sharp as mine had been when I bit you all those years ago. She crawled over to me, babbling in a language I couldn’t understand. She smacked at me with her little pink hands, pulling at my fur, my tail, my ears. It was the most attention I had been given in a very long time. I wasn’t your baby anymore. I wasn’t in the pictures on your mantle anymore. You ignored my whimpering in the night. You were too busy to walk with me. The couch became too crowded for me to lay on. I was just a bad dog to you.

She sunk her sharp little teeth into me like I had to you. I screamed just like you did. It bled just like you had bled. I never meant to bite her back. She was so helpless, how could she know she can’t bite? How could she know that the world hurts things that are tiny and fierce? How could she know?

I am a bad dog, you told me for the last time. I am a bad, bad dog. 

Published 12/9/2025

Taylor Ward

Taylor Ward is an author and artist from the Midwest whose interests lie in queer, trans, and indigenous horror. Taylor has been published in Flash Phantoms Magazine twice and serves as an assistant editor for Moon City Review. 

All creative work has audio available on Spotify and Youtube.