“You’re nothing but a cur,” I remark mildly. The dog looks at me, growling, and wags its tail. I have no idea why my roommate chose this creature to bring home from the pound.
The dog weighs about 10 pounds. His mottled grey skin has almost no hair, and his legs are bowed. He looks like a cross between a terrier and a chihuahua but has inherited both breeds’ worst features. One eye looks randomly off to the side. As far as I’m concerned, his only redeeming feature is the topknot consisting of eight wiry hairs sticking out from his head in all directions.
It’s 1973 when personal responsibility is not a priority. It’s the decade of minimal clothing, no sunblock, nonexistent leash laws, and not a condom to be seen. Five college-age women, various assorted boyfriends, and now two dogs live in a tiny house at the edge of campus.
My dog Cassie sniffs the new addition, who lifts his leg and pees on the floor. I am not amused.
“What’s his name?" I ask.
“Ziggy Stardust,” my roommate proclaims. I think back to the David Bowie concert we attended the year before in Atlanta Ziggy is a bisexual alien rock star who acts as a messenger for extraterrestrial beings. In addition, he has several rock star characteristics, including drug use, an enormous cock, and the ‘too-wasted-to-leave-the-room pallor.’
Yeah, that makes perfect sense,” I reply, amused.
Somehow, Ziggy fits in with our motley group. Most of the time, he sleeps on the front porch, one eye open and one closed. When he moves, he scuttles from side to side like a cockroach. He rarely stops scratching for fleas, and his rancid breath never fails to clear a room.
He somehow survives unscathed all the late-night parties and a revolving cast of roommates. We get used to cleaning up his pee spots and stepping around his unmoving body. He stubbornly refuses to learn even a single trick.
Finally, after two years, I graduate despite myself and prepare to move to another town. Before I leave, I walk over to the inert body on the porch. Ziggy barely lifts his head and glances toward me with his one good eye.
“You really are a disgusting sycophant,” I tell him. He growls and wags his tail as I scratch his head for the final time.
— opelikakat
The dog weighs about 10 pounds. His mottled grey skin has almost no hair, and his legs are bowed. He looks like a cross between a terrier and a chihuahua but has inherited both breeds’ worst features. One eye looks randomly off to the side. As far as I’m concerned, his only redeeming feature is the topknot consisting of eight wiry hairs sticking out from his head in all directions.
It’s 1973 when personal responsibility is not a priority. It’s the decade of minimal clothing, no sunblock, nonexistent leash laws, and not a condom to be seen. Five college-age women, various assorted boyfriends, and now two dogs live in a tiny house at the edge of campus.
My dog Cassie sniffs the new addition, who lifts his leg and pees on the floor. I am not amused.
“What’s his name?" I ask.
“Ziggy Stardust,” my roommate proclaims. I think back to the David Bowie concert we attended the year before in Atlanta Ziggy is a bisexual alien rock star who acts as a messenger for extraterrestrial beings. In addition, he has several rock star characteristics, including drug use, an enormous cock, and the ‘too-wasted-to-leave-the-room pallor.’
Yeah, that makes perfect sense,” I reply, amused.
Somehow, Ziggy fits in with our motley group. Most of the time, he sleeps on the front porch, one eye open and one closed. When he moves, he scuttles from side to side like a cockroach. He rarely stops scratching for fleas, and his rancid breath never fails to clear a room.
He somehow survives unscathed all the late-night parties and a revolving cast of roommates. We get used to cleaning up his pee spots and stepping around his unmoving body. He stubbornly refuses to learn even a single trick.
Finally, after two years, I graduate despite myself and prepare to move to another town. Before I leave, I walk over to the inert body on the porch. Ziggy barely lifts his head and glances toward me with his one good eye.
“You really are a disgusting sycophant,” I tell him. He growls and wags his tail as I scratch his head for the final time.
— opelikakat
Love the details: the setting in 1973; why the name is fitting. Great storytelling.
ReplyDeleteVery sweet. I met such a wonky dog at the local dog park once. This was a hard prompt to NOT be sentimental about! And I am hoping this story actually is NOT fiction (even though we are, after all, doing a "flash fiction" session). ___Macoff
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