Narrative Short Story — Untitled

Narrative Short Story — Untitled (work in progress)

When I was young, perhaps seven or eight – older than five, because we had moved and were in the new house by this time – we went to the pound to get a puppy. My parents had a dog before, but it was old and eventually had to be put to sleep. Thus, we went to get a replacement, because every young lad should have a puppy-dog.

We went to the city pound, where the animals would eventually be destroyed. When we got there, it was a sad affair, like all shelters and pet stores are. There were many cats and dogs, as well as assorted other animals, all crammed into small cages. It wasn’t sad particularly for the conditions, however, which were adequate. The sadness of the scene stemmed from the fact that there were so many of them, without much interaction, either with humans or each other. Most of the animals were friendly, and would come up to you, to rub against the door of the cage eagerly looking for a pet or a scratch. Others would cower in the corner of their cages, small and frightened, inconsequential-looking.

Eventually we all settled upon a single dog, a border collie. It was young, exuberant and friendly, and had the typical border collie markings. Long, golden hair, with white and darker patches here and there.

We completed all the required paperwork, and brought him outside. We had driven there in my mother’s small blue Toyota pick-up, so we put the dog in the back, secured him with a leash, and started the drive home.

Along the way, we stopped to get some groceries, and my parents picked up a six-pack of cheap nondescript beer – to celebrate the occasion, of course. Dropping the stuff in the back of the truck, we continued along our way.

We arrived home safely. The dog – who probably enjoyed the half hour trip – was still in the back, and I looked forward to playing with him, and all the other fun activities that you do with a new dog, before he becomes a hassle. We piled out of the truck, and went to the back, where we found out what the little pup had been doing on the way home, to preoccupy his time. He had apparently been gnawing on the six-pack of beer. The cans were in a disarray, out of the grocery bag, with tiny teeth marks, where the liquid was spraying out in little golden streams.

My parents were fairly pissed off (although today they are willing to admit that it was indeed a comical situation). They let the pooch off of his leash, and he jumped out of the truck. Noticing a cat walking by (one of several outdoor cats who live at our house, whom we feed regularly, yet live a fairly “survival of the fittest” pattern of life), our new dog ran up to get acquainted and catch a sniff.

The cat, understandably perturbed with a wet puppy-dog nose on its butt, promptly turned to our new dog and shredded his nose open. The dog ran away in pain yelping, and any anger that my parents still held towards him quickly melted away as they caught him and brought him inside.

It was an inauspicious start, but afterwards the dog wised up about cats – not to mention beer.