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Good Dog
Old Dog
Dog Long Gone.
Saw the dog again two nights ago, familliar yet wrong. Been gone for 12 years and yet standing in the front driveway, Semetary-like. Brought back by exposure to the quantity of undead information coursing the blogosphere at the moment.
Me and Mike hide inside, looking out through the front windows. Hugh, less cautious, heads investigatively towards it. "It's ok," he says, "perfectly safe."
He leans towards it, demonstrating the safety, and while we watch, horrified, it leans forward, takes his head in it's impossibly large mouth, and twists sideways. There's the world's most horrific crunching sound and he slumps, body gone suddenly limp and loose in all the wrong ways.
Terrified beyond cowardice we run down the front steps, shouting loud enough to scare off the dog. Moments later I'm bending over Hugh's body, unsure what on earth is to be done.
He stands up, "Actually, I feel fine."
I know this is not good and as I gather a scream inside myself, I wake up.
The crunching noise stays with me, returning particularly as I climb into bed last night. The sound of shattering bone and ripping cartilage. I decide that I must write this horror down to get it out of my head.
In the car on the way back from wine-tasting and sea-food dinners (both lovely) the opening words come to me suddenly, as words sometimes do.
Good Dog.
Old Dog.
Dog Long Gone.
Old Dog
Dog Long Gone.
Saw the dog again two nights ago, familliar yet wrong. Been gone for 12 years and yet standing in the front driveway, Semetary-like. Brought back by exposure to the quantity of undead information coursing the blogosphere at the moment.
Me and Mike hide inside, looking out through the front windows. Hugh, less cautious, heads investigatively towards it. "It's ok," he says, "perfectly safe."
He leans towards it, demonstrating the safety, and while we watch, horrified, it leans forward, takes his head in it's impossibly large mouth, and twists sideways. There's the world's most horrific crunching sound and he slumps, body gone suddenly limp and loose in all the wrong ways.
Terrified beyond cowardice we run down the front steps, shouting loud enough to scare off the dog. Moments later I'm bending over Hugh's body, unsure what on earth is to be done.
He stands up, "Actually, I feel fine."
I know this is not good and as I gather a scream inside myself, I wake up.
The crunching noise stays with me, returning particularly as I climb into bed last night. The sound of shattering bone and ripping cartilage. I decide that I must write this horror down to get it out of my head.
In the car on the way back from wine-tasting and sea-food dinners (both lovely) the opening words come to me suddenly, as words sometimes do.
Good Dog.
Old Dog.
Dog Long Gone.
