We’re now home from Hawai’i, where we had minimal internet access, and where we stayed too busy for me to think about writing anything for Friday Fiction last week. I did, however, get the idea for this story, and thought I’d play with a little short fiction. The remarkable Miss Sara H. is our host this week, over at Fiction Fusion. Don’t miss it!
Hair of the Dog
By Rick Higginson
He sat up, confused. The last thing he remembered was leaving the dog fight, disgusted with how how badly his dog had lost. He vaguely remembered entering a nearby bar, to drown out his disappointment. Where he was, and how he’d ended up there, was lost somewhere in the drunken binge. Blinking his eyes to focus, he recognized the look of the holding cell. Oh, great. I ended up in the drunk tank.
Standing up, he yelled for one of the cops manning the facility. When the door at the far end of the room opened, he quieted down and waited. No point in irritating the guy holding the keys, he reasoned.
A large dog trotted to the door of the cell, and sat down facing him.
“Hey, boy,” he said. “Where’s your handler, huh?” He chuckled. “Not like I can ask you when I can get out of here, after all.”
The dog continued to sit, and he got the uncomfortable feeling he was being sized up by the animal. That’s stupid, though – he’s just a dog. He’s big, and maybe well-trained, but his breed wouldn’t serve for much more than training a real fighting dog. “C’mon, Fido. Surely your master didn’t send you in here alone. Where is he?”
“Turn around,” the dog said.
Huh? Oh, man, I don’t remember what I was drinking last night, but it must not be completely out of my system yet.
“Turn around,” the dog repeated. “Now.” A low growl accompanied the command.
He faced the rear of the cell. “Why do you want me turned this way?” he asked.
“Stretch your arms out,” the dog said, ignoring the question.
“You mean like this?” he asked, extending each arm straight out from the shoulder to the side.
“Now reach up, high as you can.”
He complied. If this is a drunken delusion, or just some stupid prank, might as well just play along.
“Face me,” the dog said. “Show me your teeth.”
Turning back towards the cell door, the dog had been joined by another of the same breed. He drew his lips back to bare his teeth, and waited.
The first dog turned to the other. “Well?”
“Missing a few teeth,” the second dog said. “Can he fight?”
The first dog turned back towards him, and cocked his head as if appraising him. “If not, we give him to ones that can.”
Wait – what? “Hey, I know my rights. I’ve had enough of this game, and if someone doesn’t let me out right now, I’m calling my lawyer.”
The first dog stood on all fours, with his hackles raised. He issued a loud bark, and then spoke in a low, menacing voice. “Mine now,” he said. “You fight if I tell you to fight.”
The second dog seemed amused, and added, “Dog heaven, your hell.”
He collapsed onto the worn bunk, trembling and sweating. My hell? No. I couldn’t have drank that much last night…
* * *
The two dogs trotted back through the door from the holding area, and sat at the woman’s feet.
The deputy in charge of the jail chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Them are some dogs,” he told the woman.
“Yes, they are,” she agreed.
“All done,” the first dog said, wagging his curved, bushy tail. “We go now, Lana?”
She scratched the malamute’s ear. “Yeah, Freki. If you and Geri are done messing with the jerk’s head, we can go now. We need to go check on the dog that he left for dead, after all.”
Freki, Geri, and Lana are from the story, “Lana’s Pack,” which has been featured here on Pod Tales before, on January 2, 2009, May 29, 2009, June 19, 2009, and June 25, 2010.
1 comment:
hahaha. I'm still chuckling. That was excellent and hits a little too close to home as they recently stopped some dog fighting in our area. It's truly horrible. I loved this, especially the ending. That was just perfect! Thanks for joining in Friday Fiction. Hope your vacation was good. :)
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