The Dog at Rest

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
When do you know it's over? When is enough enough?

Submitted: June 03, 2019

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Submitted: June 03, 2019

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The dog knew that his days were truly numbered. He’s already seen the long, languid looks of his mistress. Her eyes misted with memories of him as a new young pup. How wonderful they had been. 

 

The first step had been when he no longer made the long trek out to the dog run to do his business. His usual absolutions happened on a regular basis — once in the morning (both poop and pee), a few widdles at lunch and then a big steamer at the end of the day after his mixed bowl of kibble and whatever She was having that night. At 12, he had reached an age where the monotony of this system seemed rather — obvious. 

 

“Why not shake things up a bit? Live a little. It’s only pee — I won’t shit in the house — that’s just wrong. But pee — that’s just water. Nothing too horrible. I’ll just do this so I can feel alive. “

 

After a full score plus two years, he broke the rules and peed in the closet. 

 

“It was marvelous. Truly worth the punishment. I’d do it again if I could.“

 

And he did. 

 

He had now unlocked the gates to freedom and had no wish to return to the rough chains of servitude he had long lived by and been constrained by. 

 

She had called a friend round and they discussed in hushed tones that this new behavior was most unsettling. How he had changed and that She no longer trusted him when she left the house for work. 

 

“I put down pee pads, close doors and make sure to keep his water bowl off the floor to make sure he won’t do it again,” She whined as the Dog listened carefully from the couch. 

 

“Well, he is old now. It happens to the best of us. It’s a small price to pay for his company, isn’t it?”

 

The Dog didn’t hear her reply but he knew it wasn’t good. It was time for him to escalate the stakes. 

 

Perhaps time to drop a big one on the pillow or even in her coveted shoes? 

 

She hadn’t been bad to him throughout his life here. The food was consistent — not the best — but certainly not the low cost cheap food from the bargain racks. He’d had his shots every year and she would always have a chew toy or sweater in a regular basis to tease him with. He would huff and puff for her benefit, feigning excitement just for the chance to break the monotony of everyday life. And for the longest time that had been enough. 

 

But something changed. Something happened that he couldn’t quite understand. He no longer cared about order and what was expected of him. He’d been docile enough for too long. 

At 12, he was almost done. Almost. 

 

It was time to burn the bridges and go out in a blaze of glory. “Why the hell not?! Why not truly bite the hand that feeds me and tear it all down in piss, poo and fury?! “

 

It was at this time that the dog knew that perhaps he was no longer thinking straight. That perhaps he should talk to someone about his new rebellious instincts and the battle of wills between himself and She. 

 

But analysts for dogs don’t really exist and his mind was made up. 

 

“Go big or go home.” Except he was already home and he didn’t want to be there anymore. It just didn’t matter. 

 

That night he pooped in her best shoes knowing full well that it was probably off to the shelter or even the doctor for a jab. 

 

He looked forward to the rest. 

 

When She came to him that morning, his leash in hand, he smiled at her one last time, thanking her in his heart for all that she had done, knowing that his new errant toilet had ended the deep love they had once shared. 

 

But he’d had enough and was thankful for her final decision. 

 

It was time to sleep. He was tired.


© Copyright 2019 Julian Grant. All rights reserved.

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