Lovin' in Satisac Springs - Short Story by Tom Eubanks
Harly kicked back. Scratchin'. Waitin' fer the bitch. Russian caviar, with a tail that wouldn't quit. Had to be time. She be late. Have to punish her. All day, maybe.
Harly paused, his attention drawn by a noise from next door. Who that be?
Nose around, check it out, nose around, check it out, something said again and again.
Harly mosied from the back yard lawn way back to the chain link fence. Pretended to be lookin' for somethin'. Wouldn't want his neighbor to think he cared what went on over there.
* * *
"Tramp" Cartwright. Watchin' the German kid next door scopin' the fence. Can't not notice. That coloring, that face. What he wouldn't do to get his undivided attention. But it wasn't to be. Tramp not only knew it, he believed it. Fortyish, there were too many years between them. They had nothing in common. Needed the fence. To keep the relationship platonic. After all, Harly probably loved the bitch he lived with...the Russian poopsey with the wolf eyes. That, or she had enslaved him. Scary female.
"Hey," he called to Harly. "Hey, hey, hey!"
Harly pretended like he just then noticed Tramp.
"What? Oh, you."
"Hot, huh?" Tramp said from the back steps.
"Yep, you know it. Whatchya up to?"
* * *
That was dumb. Askin' Tramp what's he up to. Tramp always took it serious. Like Harly cared. Next Tramp would be tellin' all those same stories. The one about gettin' locked out of the house in the rain storm. And the one about some strangers comin' into the house scarin' the holy crap out of him and hidin' under the bed. He'd go on and on. The real thing was, Tramp was into boys and bitches. Made Harly feel uncomfortable. When Tramp greeted him, it was way too close and personal.
But surprise, surprise, Tramp didn't tell no stories. He asked, "How's Mishka?"
"Pretty rough," Harly said, shaking his head vigorously.
"Tough, huh? Problems?"
"Nothin' I can't solve."
Changing the subject, Tramp pointed out that the little hill of dirt piled in the back corner of the fence was getting low, getting flat.
"That's 'cause we like sittin' out there," Harly commented. "Get a kick out of watchin' those stupid joggers, those stupider mountain bikers and them horses on the trail. Especially them horses. Beautiful. Mishka goes bonkers. If you're out here when the horses go by, you'll see Mishka make a bee-line for the hill. You're right, though. More we use it, the sooner we lose it. Even horses aren't worth losin' the hill."
* * *
And there she was! Trottin' out to the back forty with good ol' George. Big White George they called him, and he was a big doll baby, you betcha life. But he never noticed Mishka. Practically ignored her, in fact. When Big White George came by, it was to slobber over nothin' in particular. A sexy thing like Mishka, with her exotic coloring and perfect shape, couldn't get his attention. Least not worth yappin' about.
Mishka noticed right off that Harly was more glad to see George than he was to see her. So she hung out long enough to be polite and then went and laid down in the house. She was tuckered out anyway from her run on the beach and the big dinner she ate, so she was ready to snooze. So she did.
* * *
Ain't she somethin', Tramp thought, watching Mishka rush off into the house. Harly wasn't interested, but Mishka might be. Maybe she was tired of all Harley's rough stuff. I'd be gentle as Jell-O, he assured himself. She'd be under my spell in a tick.
Handy wasn't it? Liking everybody like that. Doubled the odds, doubled the pleasure.
And then he saw George. Big...White...George. Struttin' along the back walk to the boat. He'd plant himself in the shade of the tarp covering it. Harly'd hang out with him. The whole time. Every damn minute. No one, but no one, would get the chance to talk to George.
Mishka was looking better. What if he went around the front? He had a way to slip out. Nobody'd see him leave. He could be with Mishka. Alone.
* * *
Mishka, curled up on the couch, didn't hear His Highness come in. The whoop on the butt startled her out of a weird dream about a pile of red meat in front of her and having no teeth. Her first impulse was to strike back, but she knew His Highness would whoop her good for that.
* * *
"Stay off the goddamn couch," His Highness snarled, swiping at her with a newspaper and sitting down. "Willy brings George by and you ignore him. Don't be so particular." His Highness brushed dirt from the couch. "I see you up on the couch again, and I'll put you outside. For good."
* * *
Harly heard His Highness complainin' about somethin'. He be always bitchin' and moanin' about somethin' Mishka did. Wished he'd just leave her alone.
"Whattaya think about His Highness in there?" Harly asked George.
George raised his head and yawned. "Whattaya mean 'think'?"
Harly looked towards the house and said: "Picks on Mishka. Ticks me off." Harly wanted to do somethin' about it, but couldn't. Messin' with His Highness was a good way to get locked in the shed. Hated the shed. It was lonely in there. Made him think of Tramp, who lived alone. No way to live, that's for sure.
Harly noticed that Tramp was gone. How'd Harly not see him go? Somethin' bony goin' on here.
"George. Where'd sweet-stuff go?"
George raised his head and yawned. "Whattaya mean 'go'?"
"Never mind." Harly ran for the house.
* * *
Tramp pawed the door. He waited to see if Mishka would answer it. Hope the human's not home, he thought and wished, thought and wished, then forgot why he was at the door in the first place.
Hit forty and everything goes. First goes the memory.
Then the door opened.
* * *
His Highness looked out, then down. Sitting there was the fancy-lookin' mutt from next door.
"Hey, fella," he said, "what're you doin' out? You're goin' to get hit on the highway one of these days doin' that. Come on in. Come on. Oh, there you go, Mishka. Now you're interested, huh? Well, don't get too heated up. He's--you know--lost the ol' sperm banks. You two go out and smell butts or somethin'."
His Highness opened the back door and Mishka and Tramp lunged outside.
* * *
When Harly saw Tramp, he had the urge to get pretty personal pretty quick. But he didn't. He sniffed him in all the right places, then went to Mishka. She was ready for a fight. Bit his neck, until Harly was squirmin' on the grass.
And then a pair of horses clomped by on the back trail. Harly and Mishka froze. Stared into each other's eyes. Then charged the hill, bounding to the top, and let those horses know in good time that they better just keep on movin' by!
George laid in the shade and yawned.
* * *
Tramp watched Mishka and Harly. He thought, What's he got that I don't got?
He didn't get his answer, until His Highness took him home to Bob and Tammy, and they didn't get mad, they didn't scold him, they just fed him some leftover London broil and let him sleep in the house.
I got everything!
* * *
Mishka and Harly cuddled together on the back steps, licking and nuzzling each other. Mishka was satisfied. Harly wasn't the brightest, but he sure was loyal.
She felt sorry for Tramp, though. She knew that Tramp was lonely. But there was only so much love she could spread around.
And it all went to Harly. What a lucky dog.
The End
Copyright 1994 by Tom Eubanks
Over the next few weeks, I'll be concentrating on original fiction and personal experience. I'd love to get submissions from some of you. If I like it, I'll publish it. Don't worry about length. I want to see interesting stories, humorous or otherwise. Send them to tom@tomeubanks.com.
Harly paused, his attention drawn by a noise from next door. Who that be?
Nose around, check it out, nose around, check it out, something said again and again.
Harly mosied from the back yard lawn way back to the chain link fence. Pretended to be lookin' for somethin'. Wouldn't want his neighbor to think he cared what went on over there.
* * *
"Tramp" Cartwright. Watchin' the German kid next door scopin' the fence. Can't not notice. That coloring, that face. What he wouldn't do to get his undivided attention. But it wasn't to be. Tramp not only knew it, he believed it. Fortyish, there were too many years between them. They had nothing in common. Needed the fence. To keep the relationship platonic. After all, Harly probably loved the bitch he lived with...the Russian poopsey with the wolf eyes. That, or she had enslaved him. Scary female.
"Hey," he called to Harly. "Hey, hey, hey!"
Harly pretended like he just then noticed Tramp.
"What? Oh, you."
"Hot, huh?" Tramp said from the back steps.
"Yep, you know it. Whatchya up to?"
* * *
That was dumb. Askin' Tramp what's he up to. Tramp always took it serious. Like Harly cared. Next Tramp would be tellin' all those same stories. The one about gettin' locked out of the house in the rain storm. And the one about some strangers comin' into the house scarin' the holy crap out of him and hidin' under the bed. He'd go on and on. The real thing was, Tramp was into boys and bitches. Made Harly feel uncomfortable. When Tramp greeted him, it was way too close and personal.
But surprise, surprise, Tramp didn't tell no stories. He asked, "How's Mishka?"
"Pretty rough," Harly said, shaking his head vigorously.
"Tough, huh? Problems?"
"Nothin' I can't solve."
Changing the subject, Tramp pointed out that the little hill of dirt piled in the back corner of the fence was getting low, getting flat.
"That's 'cause we like sittin' out there," Harly commented. "Get a kick out of watchin' those stupid joggers, those stupider mountain bikers and them horses on the trail. Especially them horses. Beautiful. Mishka goes bonkers. If you're out here when the horses go by, you'll see Mishka make a bee-line for the hill. You're right, though. More we use it, the sooner we lose it. Even horses aren't worth losin' the hill."
* * *
And there she was! Trottin' out to the back forty with good ol' George. Big White George they called him, and he was a big doll baby, you betcha life. But he never noticed Mishka. Practically ignored her, in fact. When Big White George came by, it was to slobber over nothin' in particular. A sexy thing like Mishka, with her exotic coloring and perfect shape, couldn't get his attention. Least not worth yappin' about.
Mishka noticed right off that Harly was more glad to see George than he was to see her. So she hung out long enough to be polite and then went and laid down in the house. She was tuckered out anyway from her run on the beach and the big dinner she ate, so she was ready to snooze. So she did.
* * *
Ain't she somethin', Tramp thought, watching Mishka rush off into the house. Harly wasn't interested, but Mishka might be. Maybe she was tired of all Harley's rough stuff. I'd be gentle as Jell-O, he assured himself. She'd be under my spell in a tick.
Handy wasn't it? Liking everybody like that. Doubled the odds, doubled the pleasure.
And then he saw George. Big...White...George. Struttin' along the back walk to the boat. He'd plant himself in the shade of the tarp covering it. Harly'd hang out with him. The whole time. Every damn minute. No one, but no one, would get the chance to talk to George.
Mishka was looking better. What if he went around the front? He had a way to slip out. Nobody'd see him leave. He could be with Mishka. Alone.
* * *
Mishka, curled up on the couch, didn't hear His Highness come in. The whoop on the butt startled her out of a weird dream about a pile of red meat in front of her and having no teeth. Her first impulse was to strike back, but she knew His Highness would whoop her good for that.
* * *
"Stay off the goddamn couch," His Highness snarled, swiping at her with a newspaper and sitting down. "Willy brings George by and you ignore him. Don't be so particular." His Highness brushed dirt from the couch. "I see you up on the couch again, and I'll put you outside. For good."
* * *
Harly heard His Highness complainin' about somethin'. He be always bitchin' and moanin' about somethin' Mishka did. Wished he'd just leave her alone.
"Whattaya think about His Highness in there?" Harly asked George.
George raised his head and yawned. "Whattaya mean 'think'?"
Harly looked towards the house and said: "Picks on Mishka. Ticks me off." Harly wanted to do somethin' about it, but couldn't. Messin' with His Highness was a good way to get locked in the shed. Hated the shed. It was lonely in there. Made him think of Tramp, who lived alone. No way to live, that's for sure.
Harly noticed that Tramp was gone. How'd Harly not see him go? Somethin' bony goin' on here.
"George. Where'd sweet-stuff go?"
George raised his head and yawned. "Whattaya mean 'go'?"
"Never mind." Harly ran for the house.
* * *
Tramp pawed the door. He waited to see if Mishka would answer it. Hope the human's not home, he thought and wished, thought and wished, then forgot why he was at the door in the first place.
Hit forty and everything goes. First goes the memory.
Then the door opened.
* * *
His Highness looked out, then down. Sitting there was the fancy-lookin' mutt from next door.
"Hey, fella," he said, "what're you doin' out? You're goin' to get hit on the highway one of these days doin' that. Come on in. Come on. Oh, there you go, Mishka. Now you're interested, huh? Well, don't get too heated up. He's--you know--lost the ol' sperm banks. You two go out and smell butts or somethin'."
His Highness opened the back door and Mishka and Tramp lunged outside.
* * *
When Harly saw Tramp, he had the urge to get pretty personal pretty quick. But he didn't. He sniffed him in all the right places, then went to Mishka. She was ready for a fight. Bit his neck, until Harly was squirmin' on the grass.
And then a pair of horses clomped by on the back trail. Harly and Mishka froze. Stared into each other's eyes. Then charged the hill, bounding to the top, and let those horses know in good time that they better just keep on movin' by!
George laid in the shade and yawned.
* * *
Tramp watched Mishka and Harly. He thought, What's he got that I don't got?
He didn't get his answer, until His Highness took him home to Bob and Tammy, and they didn't get mad, they didn't scold him, they just fed him some leftover London broil and let him sleep in the house.
I got everything!
* * *
Mishka and Harly cuddled together on the back steps, licking and nuzzling each other. Mishka was satisfied. Harly wasn't the brightest, but he sure was loyal.
She felt sorry for Tramp, though. She knew that Tramp was lonely. But there was only so much love she could spread around.
And it all went to Harly. What a lucky dog.
The End
Copyright 1994 by Tom Eubanks
Over the next few weeks, I'll be concentrating on original fiction and personal experience. I'd love to get submissions from some of you. If I like it, I'll publish it. Don't worry about length. I want to see interesting stories, humorous or otherwise. Send them to tom@tomeubanks.com.
Posted by Tom Eubanks at 3/12/2010 5:36 PM 
Categories: Short Fiction
Tags: Storytelling From the Tombs Less is More
Categories: Short Fiction
Tags: Storytelling From the Tombs Less is More
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