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Training your dog at home, anyone? Here is my micro fiction based on an (almost) true experience:

Yankee Doodle Dog

It’s mid-July and I attend a party, people my wife and I know through our kids playing with their kids. All the moms and dads are sitting in the living room drinking ice tea, when our hosts, Len and Meg, say they have a special treat for us. Meg looks toward the kitchen and calls out, “Cagney, Cagney, here Cagney.” There’s the sound of a dog’s footsteps on linoleum and an English bulldog appears from around the corner. I think: Oh, no, tricks performed by the family dog!

Meg picks up a black derby from the coffee table while Len turns on the music – an old-time recording of James Cagney singing Yankee Doodle Dandy.

“Up, up, Cagney,” Meg says.

Here the bulldog stands his wide-shouldered, thickset body up on his pathetic little back legs. Meg places the derby on the bulldog’s head at a rakish angle. “Cagney, dance!” she orders.

I wouldn’t think it possible but I’ll be damned if the derbied bulldog doesn’t do a soft-shoe the length of the room, back and forth on the tan rug, all in time to Yankee Doodle Dandy. Everyone looks on in stone silence.

It’s hot and after what must be a full minute the bulldog’s pushed-in face begins to look strained as he drools and slobbers. Squirming in my chair, I think enough already with the grotesque side show but on and on the song plays and the bulldog doesn’t miss a step. Back and forth, back and forth – the bulldog’s dripping tongue is hanging out and he’s panting furiously. Refrain after refrain, the bulldog continues his dance as if a performer in some ghastly cabaret. Then, finally, mercifully, it’s all over: the music stops and the exhausted bulldog plops down on all fours, the derby falling off his head.

“Good boy, Cagney!” Meg says and leads the dog to the kitchen where I can hear him greedily lapping up water from his bowl.

All the moms and dads cry out:

“Now that’s what I call talent!”

“Amazing!”

“Great Show!”

“Who taught him to do that?”

Len pronounces proudly, “Both Meg and I have been working with him but I have to admit Meg is the driving force.”

Len looks over at me. “Unique,” I say, tartly.

Later the conversation shifts inevitably to our kids. Cagney is curled up at my feet. I want desperately to communicate, to connect with him, but how? I begin to hum Yankee Doodle Dandy. Cagney immediately cocks his head at me. Eye to eye he begins to growl. I stop humming and nod as if in approval. He continues to growl and I say, “Good boy,” and give him another conspiratorial nod.

… (mais)
 
Marcado
Glenn_Russell | 1 outra resenha | Nov 13, 2018 |

Training your dog at home, anyone? Here is my micro fiction based on an (almost) true experience:

Yankee Doodle Dog

It’s mid-July and I attend a party, people my wife and I know through our kids playing with their kids. All the moms and dads are sitting in the living room drinking ice tea, when our hosts, Len and Meg, say they have a special treat for us. Meg looks toward the kitchen and calls out, “Cagney, Cagney, here Cagney.” There’s the sound of a dog’s footsteps on linoleum and an English bulldog appears from around the corner. I think: Oh, no, tricks performed by the family dog!

Meg picks up a black derby from the coffee table while Len turns on the music – an old-time recording of James Cagney singing Yankee Doodle Dandy.

“Up, up, Cagney,” Meg says.

Here the bulldog stands his wide-shouldered, thickset body up on his pathetic little back legs. Meg places the derby on the bulldog’s head at a rakish angle. “Cagney, dance!” she orders.

I wouldn’t think it possible but I’ll be damned if the derbied bulldog doesn’t do a soft-shoe the length of the room, back and forth on the tan rug, all in time to Yankee Doodle Dandy. Everyone looks on in stone silence.

It’s hot and after what must be a full minute the bulldog’s pushed-in face begins to look strained as he drools and slobbers. Squirming in my chair, I think enough already with the grotesque side show but on and on the song plays and the bulldog doesn’t miss a step. Back and forth, back and forth – the bulldog’s dripping tongue is hanging out and he’s panting furiously. Refrain after refrain, the bulldog continues his dance as if a performer in some ghastly cabaret. Then, finally, mercifully, it’s all over: the music stops and the exhausted bulldog plops down on all fours, the derby falling off his head.

“Good boy, Cagney!” Meg says and leads the dog to the kitchen where I can hear him greedily lapping up water from his bowl.

All the moms and dads cry out:

“Now that’s what I call talent!”

“Amazing!”

“Great Show!”

“Who taught him to do that?”

Len pronounces proudly, “Both Meg and I have been working with him but I have to admit Meg is the driving force.”

Len looks over at me. “Unique,” I say, tartly.

Later the conversation shifts inevitably to our kids. Cagney is curled up at my feet. I want desperately to communicate, to connect with him, but how? I begin to hum Yankee Doodle Dandy. Cagney immediately cocks his head at me. Eye to eye he begins to growl. I stop humming and nod as if in approval. He continues to growl and I say, “Good boy,” and give him another conspiratorial nod.

… (mais)
 
Marcado
GlennRussell | 1 outra resenha | Feb 16, 2017 |

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