The Little Black Dog: Part 1
This is a story I'm currently working on that was inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's "The Black Cat." I'm writing it rather quickly so I can at least get 2 or 3 chapters posted before Halloween. Therefore, consider this as the rough draft. This first chapter will serve mostly as an introduction to the story. Not much going on in it really other than opening thoughts.
I'm not the best writer in the world, but it's not totally unreadable. I promise. This is meant to be a short story, so the chapters I divide it into will be very short and simple for the most part. Please remember that this is a fiction! In no way do I actually encourage or agree with cruelty to animals! The scenario is little more than a tool I'm using to show the complete breakdown and psychosis of a seemingly everyday average woman. Thanks for reading!
Concerning the image : This isn't mine and I have no idea who made it. It was just something random and unique I found on photobucket. Having said that, I plan on replacing it very soon. I'm pretty sure I can get my husband or someone I know to draw something good.
Title: The Little Black Dog
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1289
Warning - Contains adult launguage and situations as well as violence and animal cruelty. Read at your own risk!
Copyright 2009. Property of K. Lorraine Bratton.
I would often stand at the back door and watch the small puppy doing its morning business through the glass… stalking it. It seemed harmless enough. In fact, the puppy was actually disgustingly cute. It was solid black and no larger than a sewer rat. A mix between a dachshund and terrier, the dog was calendar material. We had bought the puppy as a present for our daughter; or at least that’s what my husband had used as fuel to cloud my reasoning when we debated our little “investment.” He was an avid dog lover. There was no better pet in his eyes. I, myself, preferred cats as companions. In my mind, dogs were too filthy and stupid. There was the headache of potty training and teaching them not to bark all night and jump all over every person they saw. They required more attention than I was willing to give. I had no desire to take care of such a high maintenance pet. However, I wanted to get something special for my toddler. I thought the dog would be a perfect playmate provided it was small and harmless.
I had initially thought the dog was perfect when we found it at the animal shelter. It was obvious that it was the runt of the litter since it was only half the size of his brothers and sisters. It had been curled up in a little ball in the back corner of the cage. It was indeed just what I wanted: small and harmless. I had held the puppy close to me as my husband filled out the adoption papers, trying to bring comfort to its shaking limbs. I had no problems with the dog at the time. In fact, I was actually looking forward to bringing it home and letting it interact with my child.
It wasn’t until I had brought it home that I felt the first stings of anger and hatred. I couldn’t pinpoint the source at first, but it soon became obvious to me that it was in fact the cute little black puppy that we had originally brought home in hopes of adding a little joy and happiness to the household. Every time I heard its paws walking across the hardwood floors, I could feel myself totally changing demeanors. It would often sit in the kitchen and stare up at me as I did my daily chores. It unnerved me to the point of putting the dog outside while I worked, and then would start the constant high pitched cries and whimpers of being left alone. His pathetic cries at the doors and constant scratching gnawed at my sanity.
I started to feel as if I was housing two different personalities. There was the personality that everyone knew and loved; the one that was a devoted mother and caring friend. One who loved all living creatures, one who always donated to the Human Society and had even kept up with PETA at one time. That was the part of me that I knew the best. I would have never imagined in any lifetime that this second personality, a whole new persona, could emerge out of nowhere. It was one that knew no limits to anger. It only showed itself when the dog was around. It was that dog and that dog alone that gave birth to the monster that now grew inside of me. What else could it have possibly been other than the stimuli that continued to trigger it?
‘Fucking little dog…’
The three words had become a redundant melody in my mind; and as I now watched the cursed black vermin run across my backyard, kicking up dirt in my flower bed and pissing all over the leg of my child’s playground set, I felt a sinister scowl form across my face that must have looked more diabolical than that of any demon. I imagine had I seen my reflection, I would have backed away from the door so the neighbors that lived behind me didn’t think of me as a sinister villain. Instead, I remained at the back door with my eyes plastered to the animal that was now dropping its feces right beside my child’s sandbox. It kicked up a little dry grass with its hind legs as it finished and pranced off with its disgusting tongue hanging down the side of its mouth. It looked happy with itself; like it was proud that it just defiled my child’s domain. That miserable little shit was marking its territory! It was claiming my child’s backyard playground as its own!
‘Fucking little dog…’
It’s not that I despised dogs. I had no problem getting along with canines while I was growing up. I will admit I was highly afraid of the larger dogs as I was attacked by a German Sheppard when I was 7. The young man who had lived next door to my parents at the time had recently been discharged from the military and had brought home with him a dog which had been trained to kill. I had been playing in my own yard and the dog decided to pay a little visit. Why it thought I was a threat, I’ll never know. What was in my scent that was so dangerous to him? Perhaps it had just gone totally mad. Maybe when it looked at me with those color blind eyes, it angered him. I suppose I’ll never know.
I’ll never forget the anger in that dog’s bark. Nothing can erase the memory of that dog sinking its teeth into the back of my leg and knocking me to the ground. I’ll never forget the sheer pain and horror I felt at that moment as the dog started biting at my hands and arms, tearing into my skin. I had buried my face in the sand and placed my arms behind my neck as if I was practicing a tornado drill in grade school. After what seemed like hours (though in all likelihood it was only a few minutes) a couple riding their bikes around the neighborhood passed by and managed to get the dog off of me. My arms were covered in blood and I was in a state of shock, too scared to speak. It was a child's nightmare. My mother requested the dog be put down after that. The neighbors didn’t really have a choice but to honor my mother’s wishes. Although they were bitter, they didn’t want to get sued. My wounds eventually healed, but the dog paid the ultimate price with its life. Did that upset me? No. In fact, I rather enjoyed the thought of that dog being put to sleep. I could walk outside in my yard again without any fear of becoming dog kibble. Justice couldn’t have served me better.
Perhaps it was my hatred of that German Sheppard that somehow managed to reawaken with this tiny black dog. It didn’t really seem logical considering the difference in size and demeanor. This little dog that had invaded my home was very submissive, with a loud and whinny whimper that kept me awake at all hours of the night. The Sheppard had been a hatred built on fear. However, this little dog was different. This was the sort of hatred that didn’t need any foundation. Every time I saw that dog, I felt a rage inside of me that could not only burn the deepest depths of my soul, but a rage that could light hell ablaze all over again. It was an anger that beckoned me to nurture it, and the only way to do that, was to make that disgusting little creature in my backyard endure intense suffering.