The words over at Three Word Wednesday are harmless, moist, yelp. This bit of silliness is a re-write of a much smaller piece done a few years ago.
I awake with my face pressed up against wire mesh, completely wrecked, a splitting headache and dirty black hairs stuck to my moist, full lips.
I’m in a dog run, concrete floor, hurricane fence front. A water dish, upturned, and a food dish half-full of kibble in one corner. A ratty rug is bunched up in the opposite corner.
My stirring draws the attention of a rheumy-eyed Bassett hound next door.
“I say, could you please tell these good fellows that I am certainly not a stray,” he says. “I have a fine home. I just walked a wee bit too far a field. Here, good sir, take a look at these tags.”
His yelps get the young tawny-colored mutt in next run going.
“Dude, dude, hey dude,” he says. “It was a harmless little nibble, serious. I didn’t mean to bite her, really. But man, they taste good huh? I mean goooood. You’re hearin’ me huh? Goooood.”
I let out a hideous growl, low and throaty and both dogs, tails tucked, retreat to opposite corners. I walk back to the rug, un-bunch it, walk three times in a circle, curl up.
The sound of a single leather pump tapping on the concrete raises me from a fitful slumber. It’s my mother, standing with arms crossed, her mouth a stern line of red lipstick. She’s got a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops in a plastic bag at her feet.
I stretch, try to hide my nakedness.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” I say, shaking my wild mane of tangled hair.
“Oh don’t give me that,” she says, waging a finger at me. “Fifty-six years and your father’s never once been picked up by the dogcatcher. I’m so ashamed.”