I Would like a Talking Puppy.

If I had a talking puppy...

I was brainstorming ideas for sketches and random thought, What if I had a talking puppy? There were talking dogs everywhere when I was little on TV and in the movies. I always thought it was a dull premise for a sitcom. My dream dog is (unsurprisingly) Batman's dog Ace. I would like a big, brilliant, loyal pooch.

Dogs are our friends. I've always felt distaste towards referring to a pet as a child because pets hold a special status in our lives. They are friends. They are in our lives because we both want to share our lives. If the dog could talk then the friendship would take on different dimensions. I would want a talking puppy because he would be a friend.

Puppies are cute. I don't want a puppy because puppies are better than adult dogs. Adult dogs have so much to offer and puppies are cute because that's the only way we'll put up with the puppy destroying everything. Also if you start with a puppy and they don't stop destroying everything then when they're adults you're kind of locked in because they're your dog for better or worse.

We could talk about everything! When I had a bad day at work, he could help me through the problem. I wouldn't have to worry about what he did all day because he'd have his own doggy door and just go off and live his life.

If I had a talking puppy then I'd know he didn't grow into adulthood around idiots and psychos (just a well-meaning weirdo). He wouldn't go around spouting racist diatribes because I'd teach him better than that. I'd expose him to the beauty of the diversity in the world. It's hard enough to change a human's mind when they grow attached to toxic ideas, I imagine changing a talking dog's mind would be even harder. But I suppose it would be rewarding to show the talking dog that the world is bigger and filled with better people than he ever knew.

With adult dogs, you don't know what lives they lived before you. You could be the best thing that ever happened to them. I'm always afraid of what the dog went through before me. Maybe it would be easier with talking dogs. I could talk it out with him or if it's really bad I could get him therapy.

A talking dog would be easier to train because I wouldn't have to. He's smart enough to talk, he's smart enough to tell me "I have to use the backyard."

If more than just my dog could talk, it would alter the fabric of society. Oh...wow...I really shouldn't think that much about sketch ideas. But I think by now, you could see why the idea of a talking puppy didn't seem that funny to me (And I overthink things.)

The shows from when I was little were usually about people who became dogs or unique people who could talk to dogs. Now, there are plenty of shows with talking dogs like Family Guy...etc (I'm not that invested into coming up with further examples).

I'm really more of a cat person but I would be sore if I had a talking cat that refused to talk to me and that's the kind of thing a cat would do. Really, cats could be able to talk and simply refuse to do so. Thats would be such a cat thing to do.

Short Story - Black Box

Black Box

The black box lived in the back of the closet since before they shut down the library the first time to tear out the asbestos. The back office had long been a dump for worthless junk that wasn't garbage. Not the strangest thing we pulled from the old library. The strangest thing was the cardboard box of annotated explicit magazines under the reference librarian’s desk. The collection spanned several decades and bore the handwriting of many different people. I refused to touch it without a hazmat suit.

The black box was about the size of a microwave. It took time, effort, sweat and the blood from my smashed thumbed to get it home. I ran a finger along the fresh gouge I'd made on the tabletop. I should have left it on the floor but I only had had that thought after the property damage.

I studied the lumpy surface, pressing the convex and concave features hoping to trigger a switch. Nothing happened.

I pushed it onto its side. The bottom had four black screws flush with the surface. It reminded me of the VCR I took apart once to retrieve a pile of colorful bits. I've always loved forcing open broken piece of electronics to see what bits I could find inside.

I found a driver to fit and started my attack on the screws. Black paint flaked off the screwheads. I muttered a prayer to the patron saint of handymen, “Right tight, left loose.” The screw began to turn. A rivulet of pink ran from the screw down the box to the tabletop.

I tapped my finger in the viscous goo. I imagined that all toxic things smelled like industrial cleaner. The goo didn't smell like cleaner, it smelled like lip gloss. I took a sponge to the table and successfully smeared it into the grain of the wood. I had stained the table and my index finger neon pink.

I covered the table with newspapers to protect it from further destruction (another thought I should have had sooner). I freed the screw from the casing. Goo continued to leak out. I went to the second screw, then the third and the fourth. Goo ran out of each hole.

I stuck the screw driver into one of the holes and pried the panel. The black paint cracked and the panel came free. I cheered. I lowered the panel and looked inside. Not wires, circuits or diodes. Veins, bone and membranes.

I heard Dad's footsteps in the hallway. He called out. “I’m home. How was the library? Get anything interesting?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer.

He stepped into the doorway. “What is that? What are you doing? And do I want to know?” The smile faded. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“What's wrong?”

I shook my head again. I clasped a hand over my mouth before I saw the stain. I backed away from the table. He blocked me from fleeing the room.

“You're scaring me. What's wrong?”

He stepped to the table and studied the box. He turned and smiled, "You're overreacting. This is not a big deal."

Nimshod Deposed

Nimshod Deposed

A stoplight stains hyetal water to blood

Freon ghosts breath down my back

A fountain filled with vicious wishes

Stone slick as a broken neck

Villainy possesses these hollow streets

Virtue finds an ally in me

A simple purpose defines my night

Exorcise the terror from this city

The Nimshod perpetrates pain and theft

He claims a throne, demands a crown

Ruler of an illegitimate dominion founded on fear

I pursue his putsch and dissolution

Our war of wills and weapons waged in alleyways

His allies have been confined to dreary places with bars and guards

It’s a one to one war

An armored shadow against a pretend monarch

His muscles and nails, grab and dig

His features, a deadset cure for sleep, defined by white lines on gray flesh

His hatched and stippled eyes, his bared teeth, his curled lips

Growl, laugh, hiss, mock

The hours wear me down to my single error

I fall and crawl like a bat in a birdbath

Water floods under clothes, over skin

My hands grasp the coins

I am the BB, the seed, the girl with the fatal delusion that she could win

That’s what I want him to see

Caudal bait to hook

He bites the metal

Now is my time, to tear him down

Mere moments to try or die

Adrenaline drowns my fear

I rise to it

I’m in gear, on my feet and on the offense

My mental mantra screams, “Show your strength.”

My practice pays

With a fistful of coins, I strike his face and back he rears

His desperation drives him

To lash out wildly, to lunge at me

He blares deadly warning like a klaxon

He crashes to the water

His finish is now, the night is quiet

Only the furious rhythm of my heart

Still and stock, he lays afloat in the water

Only the slow rise of his breath

He demanded revenge for the wounds in his pride

He wanted recompense for his lost wealth

His aimed to reclaim his power

I took what was left

I pursued my foe and I let him know fear

I held my ground and I took his

I fought to live and I lived the fight

I never stopped and I stopped him

Sirens will sound, words will be printed

Stories will be told, remixed, interpolated, and retold

A single shared truth will bind the twisted words

The reign of the Nimshod is over

Day will break

Life will happen

Then night will return

As will I

Neon drips and puddles in the street

Freon ghosts flutter in the night

A marble fountain filled with wishes

A present bound for prison

Note - Originally posted on Dreams Taste Good April 26, 2014