Flash Fiction by Richard M. Ankers

I sit like a dog, tail wagging, mouth drooling, without ever a hope of a pat; too far to reach. The woman I would have as my mistress flaunts herself before me, waggling the tether in the air, wringing out the collar for dear life. The kennel, however, remains boarded up.

There are times when she notices. Not many days, minutes, or seconds, but some. Times where she frowns at a puddle. Times where she studies her shoelaces and thinks. When she does, I smile like a schoolboy who’s just got a gold star for handing in someone else’s homework. I revel in her momentary adulation. I would swim in it. Even if I drowned all over again.

There are days when I regret my once canine ways. I bark at the moon in disappointment. I howl at the stars whilst searching for friends. No one listens, though. No one ever did. I always close my eyes and pray, but I still find it hard to look away.

She has bought a dog for real, now. It’s a little snip of a thing. Some kind of poodle, or doodle, or both. The dog curls up on her lap and laughs at me. It grins a many-toothed grin. Then, as if bored, it sighs a contentment and falls happily asleep. I can almost taste its joy.

I was happy, once. But I treated her like that which I have become. That is the price you pay. Now, I’m always looking up for a morsel and never down to my bowl. It’s a dog’s life, or rather, a dog’s death.

Text © Richard M. Ankers