Indie Blogger’s Weekly Challenge

1 Mar

“You get drunk and shave your dog. Under his fur, tattooed on his skin, is some kind of writing. The dog scurries away from you with his tail between his legs and as he passes by your highly reflective flat screen TV you see these words reflected in the glass: follow me. He disappears through the doggy door.”

. . .As you chug the last of your Canadian Mist on the rocks a thought occurs to you, “When did I put that door in for Sir Winston?” How strange that you had never noticed the obscenely large doggy door your St. Bernard has just gone through. You grab the nearest pair of shoes you can find, wish you were wearing something other than a T-shirt adorned with a picture of a can of Spam, and follow after Sir Winston. You’re halfway through the doggy door when you realize that your ass is not going to make it-you’re stuck.

“Shit,” you think to yourself, “Now what?” Your mind races as you begin thinking of how to get out of this one. It very much reminds you of when Winnie the Pooh got stuck in the honey tree-only with 2 distinct differences: none of your little friends are going to come and save you and no one wants to see your exposed fat ass in the too small leopard print ruffle panties you just bought. Okay, well maybe someone does, only you haven’t met him yet and you’re pretty sure he’s not going to come to your rescue anytime soon. You push and pull yourself trying to dislodge yourself from the door. The only thing this causes is for your Spam t-shirt to creep upwards and for you to begin sweating profusely. “This is so hot,” you think to yourself.

Stupid dog, this predicament is his fault. “Sir Winston! Sir Winston!” you call to him. He trots back to you and begins breathing his hot doggy breath in your face. “No!” you say firmly. He takes this as an invitation to begin licking your face. Stupid dog. “No!” you shout at him. This only sounds like encouragement to him and he doubles his efforts. The stank doggy breath and slobbery licks reenergize you and you begin to squirm vigorously to get free. After what seems like an eternity, you manage to pull yourself back in the door and into the house.

Sitting on your ass on the dusty hardwood floor you assess the damage: your midsection is bruised, you’re now covered in sweat and doggy slobber, and your hair now looks like a rat’s nest. The dog pops his head in, barks, and you get the feeling that he’s beckoning you to follow him. “Fuck you, dog.” You crawl back to your chair, pour yourself another glass of Canadian Mist and turn on the TV. The second he comes back, you’re going to introduce him to toothpaste.

As featured on Indie Bloggers.

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