| Biographical Flash Fiction posted May 19, 2024 |
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Believe it or not...
Two Pals Out for a Walk
by Tom Horonzy
We were friends to the end, and then he died. Still, my best friend Buddy visits me now and again. This is but one of our conversations. Of course, it's fictional because dogs can't talk, or so we have been led to believe, and yet...
The scene begins with a gray first light brightening a bedroom in Hammersham Borough, exactly at the same time Buddy arrives each day with pleading eyes and warm bone-scented breath.
"Master Tom. Time to get up. My bladder is about to overflow."
Com'on Bud. It's 6 a.m. I am toasty warm. Besides, it's raining cats and friends outside. Can you hold it a little longer?
No. And unless you get your arse out of the sack, it will be raining in here, too.
(He feints an aim and raises his rear leg)
Okay. Find me some socks, a jock, and a freshly brewed cup of tea.
(Buddy is an English Sheepdog, and likes Grey Earl best with breakfast).
A moment later, he returns sans any brew.
You'll get the tea after I pee and not a blimey second before.
Struggling, I rise. Bud excitedly performs a half dozen pirouettes, with each spin having his tail slashing my back end. I struggled to slip on my knickers that got twisted last night, so I tossed them on the floor. Then, slowly my overalls.
Are you going to take all day? If so, I am going to loosen a fine spray of tainted uric acid your way, and maybe a toot as well, whose smell will awaken the missus.
His threat hastens action, and we head for the backdoor. I grab a rain shade for me and a slicker for him, as a piddling rain is puddling the walk.
You know, if you had any sense, you would put on your Wellies (Wellington Boots) so your tootsies won't get wet.
Well, they won't get wet if we stay inside either.
Once more, he feints a wet in my direction.
Okay, I get it. Let's get this done.
It's about time.
I crack open the door, and as fresh air hits his snout, he lets loose a ripe toot and apologizes.
I guess my bowels are as twisted as your knickers.
(Evidenced by a fragrance that turns fresh to stale.) He slams the backdoor further open dashing foward to mi lady's roses.
Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, and the King as well.
Bud begins spraying spray, a Benjamin Britten first, before misting a Shropshire Lad. Two of the 15 varieties in the rose garden.
I would of, if I could of, but you were late getting your arse from your Queen-size bed. Besides, I smelled the scent of Grayson and Drake. (Two canine pals). They've been out and about earlier than thou. I can smell their void upon named flowers. See, The buds have already begun to wilt. Therefore, she, the missus, cannot blame us for their dishevelment.
That's a relief. Will you explain it to her for me?
No, Joe. You know our conversations are private, and if you propose I do speak witht her, she would likely call a doctor of psychology for you and a veterinarian for me. A predicament we should avoid. Agree?
Now, let's hasten over to the bakery for scones and hot-crossed buns, and if I am lucky, I''ll reconnoiter with that bicce poodle whose master named Princess Dee.
The story ends with Buddy prancing merrily home, a dare-devil smile on his smug face after leaving Di spent on the bakery sidewalk.
The Gift of Gab writing prompt entry
We were friends to the end, and then he died. Still, my best friend Buddy visits me now and again. This is but one of our conversations. Of course, it's fictional because dogs can't talk, or so we have been led to believe, and yet...
The scene begins with a gray first light brightening a bedroom in Hammersham Borough, exactly at the same time Buddy arrives each day with pleading eyes and warm bone-scented breath.
"Master Tom. Time to get up. My bladder is about to overflow."
Com'on Bud. It's 6 a.m. I am toasty warm. Besides, it's raining cats and friends outside. Can you hold it a little longer?
No. And unless you get your arse out of the sack, it will be raining in here, too.
(He feints an aim and raises his rear leg)
Okay. Find me some socks, a jock, and a freshly brewed cup of tea.
(Buddy is an English Sheepdog, and likes Grey Earl best with breakfast).
A moment later, he returns sans any brew.
You'll get the tea after I pee and not a blimey second before.
Struggling, I rise. Bud excitedly performs a half dozen pirouettes, with each spin having his tail slashing my back end. I struggled to slip on my knickers that got twisted last night, so I tossed them on the floor. Then, slowly my overalls.
Are you going to take all day? If so, I am going to loosen a fine spray of tainted uric acid your way, and maybe a toot as well, whose smell will awaken the missus.
His threat hastens action, and we head for the backdoor. I grab a rain shade for me and a slicker for him, as a piddling rain is puddling the walk.
You know, if you had any sense, you would put on your Wellies (Wellington Boots) so your tootsies won't get wet.
Well, they won't get wet if we stay inside either.
Once more, he feints a wet in my direction.
Okay, I get it. Let's get this done.
It's about time.
I crack open the door, and as fresh air hits his snout, he lets loose a ripe toot and apologizes.
I guess my bowels are as twisted as your knickers.
(Evidenced by a fragrance that turns fresh to stale.) He slams the backdoor further open dashing foward to mi lady's roses.
Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, and the King as well.
Bud begins spraying spray, a Benjamin Britten first, before misting a Shropshire Lad. Two of the 15 varieties in the rose garden.
Bud begins spraying spray, a Benjamin Britten first, before misting a Shropshire Lad. Two of the 15 varieties in the rose garden.
I would of, if I could of, but you were late getting your arse from your Queen-size bed. Besides, I smelled the scent of Grayson and Drake. (Two canine pals). They've been out and about earlier than thou. I can smell their void upon named flowers. See, The buds have already begun to wilt. Therefore, she, the missus, cannot blame us for their dishevelment.
That's a relief. Will you explain it to her for me?
No, Joe. You know our conversations are private, and if you propose I do speak witht her, she would likely call a doctor of psychology for you and a veterinarian for me. A predicament we should avoid. Agree?
Now, let's hasten over to the bakery for scones and hot-crossed buns, and if I am lucky, I''ll reconnoiter with that bicce poodle whose master named Princess Dee.
The story ends with Buddy prancing merrily home, a dare-devil smile on his smug face after leaving Di spent on the bakery sidewalk.
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Writing Prompt Your pet suddenly acquires the gift of speech. Write a flash fiction using that as the theme. 1000 word limit. |
This was a lot of fun and a creative challenge. Thanks Jullie.
I never have been to England, but tried to use British words and descriptions to enlighten the reader to where I place the events penned.
The collage is made up of Buddy MBF. May he rest in peace and stop waking me up, though I kinda enjoy it.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. I never have been to England, but tried to use British words and descriptions to enlighten the reader to where I place the events penned.
The collage is made up of Buddy MBF. May he rest in peace and stop waking me up, though I kinda enjoy it.
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