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Abstract

esponds with a series of threatening grunts and growls. I stuff my head beneath my pillow and fall back asleep.9:10 A.M. I wake up to the smell of wet fur and kibble. Stretch. Something catches in the back of my throat. Upon inspection, the offender appears to be a tuft of freshly-brushed fur. The bed sheets are shredded, and urine stains turn the blue comforter a pale shade of lavender.Dog urine. My dog has gone rogue.The floor is missing. It has been swallowed by a mountain of white fur. Desperate, I look for my cell phone. It refuses to turn on. It is also wet.Dog drool.We have a telephone. The cord is cut. Frayed at the center, as if chewed. Attempts to restore functionality fail miserably. I resort to contacting an expert. I walk across the street and knock on the neighbor’s front door. We have never spoken before, but desperate times call for neighborly measures.A thirteen-year-old boy answers the door. He accepts my request for assistance.Upon entering the crime scene, he whistles. The dog, unable to help himself, erupts from a mountain of fur at the foot of the sofa. He is twice as large as yesterday. He leaps for the thirteen-year-old, who remains unnamed. May he rest in peace.I fen

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d off The Dog with a half-eaten shoe. By distracting it with a sock, I am able to barricade myself in the kitchen.9:44 A.M. I attempt to sneak out the doggy door. A growl alerts me to the presence of The Dog. I attempt a strategic retreat and am wounded. Three scratches to the forearm. I wrap the appendage in paper towels and hope for the best. The situation remains grim.9:55 A.M. The sneezing begins. I worry for my continued health.9:56 A.M. The sneezing worsens. Symptoms of a severe cough arise. I suspect I am going into anaphylactic shock.9:58 A.M. Attempts to force open the kitchen door are met with stiff resistance. It is stuck. I peer through the door-crack. In the living room, fur has risen to knee height. The china cabinet has been smashed from the force exerted by fur pushing against the glass.I contemplate life.10:00 A.M. I am losing consciousness. I’ve recorded my experience on a calendar magnetized to the fridge. May all my possessions pass to my next-of-kin unless that kin is The Dog, in which case, I forfeit all my possessions to The Pound.May justice be served, and The Dog brought to justice.Sincerely, Owner of The Dog</article></body>

My Dog Won’t Stop Shedding, and I Have Died.

The Dog is a killer. Beware the fleas. (A short fiction)

This is an emergency broadcast to the dog owners of Southern California. If you are listening to this message, I have died. My dog has killed me. I suspect this was intentional. Below is a completely accurate retelling of A Murder Most Foul.

9 A.M. I wake up to sunshine and dog-shaped rainbows. I smack my alarm and fall back asleep.

9:01 A.M. Something wet and nosy snuffles the back of my neck. It tickles. I shove the offending snout and fall back asleep.

9:05 A.M. I hear the sound of shuffling papers. A baritone Morgan Freeman advises an unseen person on how to best avoid legal action. The person responds with a series of threatening grunts and growls. I stuff my head beneath my pillow and fall back asleep.

9:10 A.M. I wake up to the smell of wet fur and kibble. Stretch. Something catches in the back of my throat. Upon inspection, the offender appears to be a tuft of freshly-brushed fur. The bed sheets are shredded, and urine stains turn the blue comforter a pale shade of lavender.

Dog urine. My dog has gone rogue.

The floor is missing. It has been swallowed by a mountain of white fur. Desperate, I look for my cell phone. It refuses to turn on. It is also wet.

Dog drool.

We have a telephone. The cord is cut. Frayed at the center, as if chewed. Attempts to restore functionality fail miserably. I resort to contacting an expert. I walk across the street and knock on the neighbor’s front door. We have never spoken before, but desperate times call for neighborly measures.

A thirteen-year-old boy answers the door. He accepts my request for assistance.

Upon entering the crime scene, he whistles. The dog, unable to help himself, erupts from a mountain of fur at the foot of the sofa. He is twice as large as yesterday. He leaps for the thirteen-year-old, who remains unnamed. May he rest in peace.

I fend off The Dog with a half-eaten shoe. By distracting it with a sock, I am able to barricade myself in the kitchen.

9:44 A.M. I attempt to sneak out the doggy door. A growl alerts me to the presence of The Dog. I attempt a strategic retreat and am wounded. Three scratches to the forearm. I wrap the appendage in paper towels and hope for the best. The situation remains grim.

9:55 A.M. The sneezing begins. I worry for my continued health.

9:56 A.M. The sneezing worsens. Symptoms of a severe cough arise. I suspect I am going into anaphylactic shock.

9:58 A.M. Attempts to force open the kitchen door are met with stiff resistance. It is stuck. I peer through the door-crack. In the living room, fur has risen to knee height. The china cabinet has been smashed from the force exerted by fur pushing against the glass.

I contemplate life.

10:00 A.M. I am losing consciousness. I’ve recorded my experience on a calendar magnetized to the fridge. May all my possessions pass to my next-of-kin unless that kin is The Dog, in which case, I forfeit all my possessions to The Pound.

May justice be served, and The Dog brought to justice.

Sincerely, Owner of The Dog