Published Short Stories

 

Why I have to wear a pair of Wranglers everyday for the rest of my life, whilst I live on this street by James K Walker

A battered mini plods down our street doing around 25 mph. The speed is dictated more by the inadequacy of its engine than conformity to speed limits. A dog runs out under the car; straight into the side of the wheel. You can hear the thump as it clogs up the air like a painful gulp. Some kids stop playing football and I can hear them shout ‘the fucking dogs been hit’. They stare ahead, too far away for altruism to grab at their conscience and continue to play football. I hear one say that it’s not his dog; another declares his mum won’t let him have one. Soon both are laughing giving the impression that this is a natural occurrence on our street.

The mini pauses momentarily then proceeds on its journey. The gears grind, symbolising the driver’s unease. I stop and stare at the dog as it’s only a few yards away and then stare at the car driving off into the distance; its smoke polluting the air, indicating either a rusting exhaust or perhaps an oil change is required. It is irrelevant; such duties will only be performed on MOT day when legally required, for now the car performs its perfunctory obligation in getting the driver back home.

My first thought is do I leave the dog as the mini has. My second is I wish I was playing football with the kids. My third is I wish I wasn’t a vegetarian because now I feel morally implicated. I don’t even like animals, I just don’t eat them. Why I should feel guilty about eating something I care nothing for I will never know, but this is neither here nor there as I am here and the dog is laying there. There is nobody around I can turn to for advice and so I light up a cigarette and watch the smoke drift up towards the sky. As usual I am caught in a situation which never popped up on the syllabus at school.

As I extinguish my cigarette I hope the dog is not stuck to the floor. I don’t want to have to peel it off the road and listen to that Velcro noise it will make. I feel a little bad that this is my initial reaction, which in comparison with the dog’s life, or lack of it, is hardly a concern. Then I imagine how I would have reacted if it had been a child. I imagine I would have continued smoking and the mini would have driven off a little faster, and the kids may have used the body as a goalpost. The last thing in the world an injured dog needs is someone locked away in his imagination, then again the last thing the dog really needed was to be hit by a mini.

A child is at an adjacent window staring out. He has not seen the incident but has heard a noise which has aroused intrigue. His mother comes to the window, knocking the child’s head with her breast as she leans forward, before closing the curtain and resuming her position in front of the television.

I walk over to the dog because it is getting dark. If another car comes along and runs over it again I am never going to be able to peel it off the tarmac. As I close in I consider obtaining some chalk and drawing around its body. Fortunately I have no chalk at hand which forces me to take more productive action.

I considered taking it into the house with me. Putting it on the table where the TV should be, and telling mother I have brought her an inexpensive pet; one that does not need feeding or walking, a polite pet that will never bite the postman or shit on the carpet. It is an inoffensive pet that will lie next to her on the sofa and never tire of being stroked, the perfect pet for an imperfect and lazy generation. Then again perhaps I should just dump it inside the wheelie bin. I think they collect on a Thursday. Instead I have another cigarette.

Once I ran over a snake. It was black and at first I thought it was a stick or the inner valve of a bicycle tire. In hindsight, as far as road kills go, it is up there with the best. You are hard fetched to find one in a field let alone slivering across the slow lane of the A52. I reversed to confirm my suspicions and although I knew it was dead I just wanted to look at it. As I wound my window down a crow made a noise and then perched upon a tree. As it squawked, it felt as if it was telling me not to worry. That it would sort out the mess. I wish that crow was here now.

Perhaps because I had run out of cigarettes I was forced in to action. I edged forwards and inspected the animal, not too sure if I should stroke it or give it mouth to mouth resuscitation. Suddenly the dog moves and it lets out the most delayed and pained scream I have ever heard. It is like it has sucked in the entire pain of the universe and it can bear the weight no more.

ArrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhwwoooooooooooooooooofEhhhhhhhhhh

Now I’m not exaggerating, that’s exactly what it was like. It went fucking nuts. I could feel the total confusion, the pain and the frustration all juxtaposed into one deafening scream, more eloquent than if it’d been able to speak.

The dog proceeded to bound around in a circle whilst continuing its scream. It seemed to be intent on catching its tale as if this was culpable for the pain. The fact that it could not catch it seemed to frustrate it more and before I knew what was happening I became its surrogate tail. Suddenly it ran at me, diving through the air, before biting me in the nuts and bolting over the nearest garden fence. Fortunately I had on a pair of particularly tight wranglers so its fangs couldn’t penetrate beyond undoing a seam on my flies.

Such ingratitude.

It would have been fun explaining that one to a future girlfriend. If it is not bad enough that I live with my mum, nearing thirty, unemployed and divorced without the added allure of having only half a penis due to a crazy dog. It is no wonder the kids continued to play football as the mini drove on and that there are no crows around. Only an idiot would stop to give help.

I went back to my place and got another packet of cigarettes as I tried to figure out which one of the neighbour’s dogs it was. Nowadays I don’t even know which one of the kids belong to which neighbour let alone which pets. You don’t see anybody about anymore. Only kids playing football and the occasional parent struggling with ripped CO-OP bags down the road.

I knock on a few doors. Nobody knows who owns the dog but everybody wants to know why I want to know. I try to explain the howling noise it made and how it tried to bite my nuts but they just look at me like I am a pervert so I apologise for bothering them. As I make my way down the street they hang on to their front doors tracing my footsteps. They look like dominoes, all waiting to fall back inside their doors once a reason has been ascertained. I wonder if they would be so interested if EastEnders was on.

Finally a woman answers a door and admits to owning a black dog. She has a baby in her hand and immediately hands the baby to the husband. He sniffs at its nappy as if he has been set up.

‘Don’t worry. But I have some bad news.’

I watch the woman’s face turn from a pale brown to a red, before settling on white.

‘Your dog ran out in the road…’

Before I can finish she lunges at me and I feel her nails claw into my neck. One becomes lodged in my ear and I realise they are false and probably quite expensive. Then she kicks me in the nuts and I see what they mean about owners resembling their pets. She tells me I am a wanker and I should drive more carefully and then punches me so I fall back on to the floor. Within seconds she is sat on my chest and as she screams, drops of spittle fall from her mouth and land inside mine which for some strange reason, I find quite erotic. Her husband ignores the behaviour as if it is commonplace and seems only to be concerned as to why he is still holding the baby. He sniffs at the nappy again and when he can smell nothing becomes suspicious.
His wife punches me in the nuts again as if evolutionary knowledge states that this is the only way to defeat a man. Once more I am grateful for my skin tight wranglers that serve as armour and thankful I am not a slave to fashion, as baggies would have served as poor protection.

‘Dog killer…. that was our child’s pet… poor Benji.’

There is no point explaining to her that I did not run over the dog. Some times it is like this in life, but through habit rather than choice, I try to explain.

‘Your dog is alive’

‘You sick bastard. You liar. What kind of thing do you get off on?’

She is now stood above me and this time kicks me in the nuts. This time I feel something and a strange melting in my stomach takes place like when you leave butter near a window and it turns to a salty liquid. The seam has obviously taken its last blow and is now caving in. I will have to take them back and complain.

‘The dog hit the side of the wheel. It ran in a circle howling and then leaped over that fence. It was a massive jump, like a horse in the grand national’

She continues kicking, proving that women have the potential to be as good as men at football.

‘I figured the dog must be from around here as it ran off near your house. I just figured I should tell someone, as it may be curled up somewhere in pain. It’s not like it can go to a doctor or tell someone what’s happened’

She runs off, shouting ‘Benji, my darling’ and then back towards me ‘You bastard’. Sometimes due to her distress she shouts ‘You bastard’ in the direction of Benji, whilst calling me ‘My darling’, something I chose not to point out.

The father walks over to me. ‘I hated that fucking dog. I bet it’s still alive as well. It’s always pissing on the floor. You don’t want to be slipping in piss after a day at work. Sometimes I think she cares more for the dog than me’

The baby changes colour and a smell emanates from its nappy. The man shakes his head. ‘Kids and fucking dogs. Its all shit and piss’. He calls after his wife and when she returns he presents her with the baby, and its shit, and she starts to cry. But not before reminding me once more that I have completely destroyed her child’s happiness by killing the family pet. I do not bother to point out that the dog is still alive or that the child is so young it will have forgotten by bedtime. Instead I make my way home.

When mother came home she asked me if I had had a good day, and like all children I told her exactly what she needed to hear; yes I had and that life was just dandy. She then had a go at me for ruining my jeans and asked me how I was going to replace them when I had no job or money. Was I expecting her to pay for a new pair when she hardly had any money as it was? I told her I was going to sew them up but she demanded them off me. If anyone was going to do any sewing it was going to be her. What did I know about sewing? And so I disrobed and presented her the damaged wranglers, thinking to myself that I never envisaged standing in front of my mother at 28 in my pants having her still look after me.

After that day every time I saw that bloody dog it would run at me and try to bite me. Over time it became less fixated on my nuts and seemed to settle for any bodily part it could sink its teeth in to. I suppose we all settle for second best in the end and that this is better than nothing. The wranglers served as ample protection and I soon found myself buying a jacket to match so my arms and chest had similar protection. Meeting a girl I accepted would now be impossible, unless they were in to double denim.

Strangest of all was after biting me everyday the dog would still run in a circle and then leap over an adjacent fence. It was as if it had been given a new role in life, a new perspective. I don’t know if it thought it was a horse or if it thought it could fly now, but it certainly seemed happier. Maybe it’s near death experience gave it a new lease of life, no longer constrained by the limitations of its species. But to be perfectly honest, it was me who was experiencing the possibility of death each time I left the house as its owner continued to attack me as well.

Over time I have come to accept that it will be hard to persuade future girlfriends that I am a good person whilst being constantly attacked by my neighbour and their pet. Besides, it’s never really ever that bad. As a result of running away from Benji and his owner I have lost a little weight and am reasonably fit. Perhaps when I have reached my peak fitness I will keep on running until I find a neighbourhood of sensible adults and sensible pets and drivers more careful on roads.

 

 

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