Mongrels Are The Best by Kate Twitchin

“Is this your dog?”

I hate being spoken to when I’m enjoying my…

“Hello? Is this your dog?”

I’ll just ignore her…

“I used to have a dog.”

There’s a thing.

“It died.”

I’d drop dead too, if I was your dog.

“He was a mongrel. They’re the best, aren’t they, mongrels?”

She has a point there. Nothing against pedigrees but mongrels, there’s something about them, the texture of the coat…

“Collie, Labrador, maybe a bit of Jack Russell, way, way back in time.”

Sounds perfect; shame it died.

“We did everything together, I went everywhere with that dog.”

Ah, yes, that’s the beauty of a great dog, they accept you and love you, unconditionally. Even irritating little critters like you.

“I really do miss that dog.”

You don’t say.

“I’m looking for another one.”

OK, so good luck with that.

“This is a really nice dog. Is this your dog?”

OK, I’ve had my fill, I turn and take a proper look at her: she’s tiny, with enormous eyes and ridiculously skinny legs.

“Yes, this is my dog. Now clear off.”

“Maybe I could just tag along?”

“Buzz off, you tiresome little tick.”

“I won’t be in your way, I’ll stay behind you, you won’t even know I’m here.”

Before I can respond, all hell breaks loose:

The kid unclips the dog’s leash.

The man throws a ball.

The dog shoots after it, faster than a bullet.

The annoying bug-eyed parasite is flung way out of sight. Good riddance.

I drop to the ground, awkwardly, my belly swollen with blood.

I crawl around, blundering into blades of grass, stumbling over stones.

I shout, I yell, but my feeble voice is swept away by the brisk autumn breeze.

“Hey! Stop! That’s my dog!”

Selected - Weekly Write - Week 9

Published in Issue #27

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