This May Be A Joke But It's Certainly Not Punny
By Mel Bosworth
Terry was a good dog but she was kind of mangy and liked to play ruff. After several incidents with the garbage bins and the neighborhood children, the dog officer called and said he thought it best if we keep her on a short leash. My wife and I didn’t want to roll over but we had no choice—the biting and scavenging had gone on long enough and we had to scratch everyone’s itch.
I asked my wife to retriever from the yard, and when she returned with Terry I told her she was golden. My wife was an angel once, a full-blooded Saint, but when she learned she wasn’t able to have pups of her own she became something else. Then I noticed a greasy chicken wing flapping in Terry’s mouth so I said, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Terry!”
Terry blindly chomped and my wife stepped between us, mumbling something about liking a little nip herself every now and then. Out of necessity, I’d grown to tolerate my wife’s drinking because any other stance put me in the doghouse. Terry was an imperfect dog, who occasionally bit the asses of children and dove into dumpsters, but she was loveable, and far from trash, and she was the only real piece of litter my wife could have.
But before I could deal with them, someone howled at the door. It was the dog officer, this time barking about Terry’s latest shenanigans. He said we had to enroll her in dog training school so she could get her Pedigree. He wagged his finger at me and said we’d Best in Show up or he’d have to euthanize her.
I told him my wife had just baked a loaf of purebred that was fantastic with grape jam. He bared his teeth and said he wasn’t just some mutt straight out of the kennel. Then he padded away like a snooty Chihuahua.
I read Terry’s face for so long that by the time she looked away she was dog-eared. I thought about the effect dog training school would have on her, away from home, away from us, the only two people who allowed her to be what she was, and a sadness filled my heart as I realized that this dog I’d only recently trained to heel would never be able to should we inflict this wound of separation upon her.
Then I thought about my wife and how she’d had this house trained, particularly me, to accommodate her often selfish albeit sadly fated needs, and yet she still pissed on newspapers when she was drunk.
“Hair of the dog,” she’d say every morning, and then she’d gulp it down while I spat it out.
And as I thought these things my ears began to itch something fierce, and I was gripped with an overwhelming urge to flea.
I burned the house down while they were sleeping, and then, in true dog fashion, I followed the glossy tip of my raging red rocket as if it were a divining rod looking for water, for something new—a roving pack whose fur shimmered quicksilver beneath the full moon, a family.
--
Mel Bosworth is the author of Freight (Folded Word, 2011) and Grease Stains, Kismet, and Maternal Wisdom (Brown Paper Publishing, 2010). Visit him at http://eddiesocko.blogspot.com/
By Mel Bosworth
Terry was a good dog but she was kind of mangy and liked to play ruff. After several incidents with the garbage bins and the neighborhood children, the dog officer called and said he thought it best if we keep her on a short leash. My wife and I didn’t want to roll over but we had no choice—the biting and scavenging had gone on long enough and we had to scratch everyone’s itch.
I asked my wife to retriever from the yard, and when she returned with Terry I told her she was golden. My wife was an angel once, a full-blooded Saint, but when she learned she wasn’t able to have pups of her own she became something else. Then I noticed a greasy chicken wing flapping in Terry’s mouth so I said, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Terry!”
Terry blindly chomped and my wife stepped between us, mumbling something about liking a little nip herself every now and then. Out of necessity, I’d grown to tolerate my wife’s drinking because any other stance put me in the doghouse. Terry was an imperfect dog, who occasionally bit the asses of children and dove into dumpsters, but she was loveable, and far from trash, and she was the only real piece of litter my wife could have.
But before I could deal with them, someone howled at the door. It was the dog officer, this time barking about Terry’s latest shenanigans. He said we had to enroll her in dog training school so she could get her Pedigree. He wagged his finger at me and said we’d Best in Show up or he’d have to euthanize her.
I told him my wife had just baked a loaf of purebred that was fantastic with grape jam. He bared his teeth and said he wasn’t just some mutt straight out of the kennel. Then he padded away like a snooty Chihuahua.
I read Terry’s face for so long that by the time she looked away she was dog-eared. I thought about the effect dog training school would have on her, away from home, away from us, the only two people who allowed her to be what she was, and a sadness filled my heart as I realized that this dog I’d only recently trained to heel would never be able to should we inflict this wound of separation upon her.
Then I thought about my wife and how she’d had this house trained, particularly me, to accommodate her often selfish albeit sadly fated needs, and yet she still pissed on newspapers when she was drunk.
“Hair of the dog,” she’d say every morning, and then she’d gulp it down while I spat it out.
And as I thought these things my ears began to itch something fierce, and I was gripped with an overwhelming urge to flea.
I burned the house down while they were sleeping, and then, in true dog fashion, I followed the glossy tip of my raging red rocket as if it were a divining rod looking for water, for something new—a roving pack whose fur shimmered quicksilver beneath the full moon, a family.
--
Mel Bosworth is the author of Freight (Folded Word, 2011) and Grease Stains, Kismet, and Maternal Wisdom (Brown Paper Publishing, 2010). Visit him at http://eddiesocko.blogspot.com/
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