Would the kind people of this group like to help a rescue centre?

[Mantaspook 14]

Hi Strix,

 

Please feel free to use the short story below in your newsletter if you want.

 

A Dog’s life.

 

A small, round, furry black ball, that’s what he looked like. He was a Labrador puppy, playful, bouncing with energy and far cuter than anything the marketing department of a certain toilet roll manufacturer could lay their hands on. My mother laughed at his clumsy antics, and in a classic example of one of her more ironic moments, she christened him “Butch.”

 

He barked at the other dogs on the telly, bumped into the furniture, peed on the carpets for a while and fell asleep in the most unusual of places, as I found out one day at school when, during registration, he poked his sleepy head out of my sports bag. He was almost ripped apart as thirty kids tried to hold him and stroke him all at once, my form tutor, Mrs Smith, was less impressed and told me to take him straight home, “But I’ll miss double maths!” I told her, in my head.

 

The piece of string looped around the puppies collar was almost pulled out of my hand as he gambolled all the way home, and suddenly everyone wanted to ask me his name, how old he was, and comment on what a lovely puppy he was.

 

As he got older Butch would like nothing better than sitting outside in the sunshine and to watch the world go by. Workmen from the local factories would pat him on the head as they walked past, he joined them for their mid morning tea break, sauntering over to help dispose of any biscuits that were surplus to requirements. They even bought him his own tin mug to slurp tea out of.

 

When the factory hooter announced the end of the tea break and there were no more biscuits to eat he would wander to the top of the road to blockade the local butchers.

 

Standing across the doorway, disinterestedly studying the chops in the window, he pointedly ignored any customers trying to get in, many of whom climbed over him until the exasperated butcher finally gave him a bone.

 

He would then wag his tail, just once or twice, and carry his wares back to the street corner to chomp throughout the afternoon, naturally the butcher soon realised that the larger the bone, the longer it would take to eat and the longer the gap between Butch’s visits, this not only made sound economic sense but it also stopped the customers whinging about “That bloomin’ dog in the doorway.”

 

I can imagine the butcher’s glee when, one day, he patted Butch on the head and gave him a bone that resembled the thigh bone of a brontosaurus, no doubt chuckling as the weight of it almost dragged the poor dogs head to the floor.

 

Undeterred, Butch grabbed the knobbly bit at one end of the bone and with a supreme effort, lifted and twisted the bone upwards, giving the butcher a healthy whack on the chin as he did so. Balancing the bone vertically he staggered home, cheerfully clubbing any workmen, passers-by and cars with careless abandon. He would then sit on the street corner and chew his bone all afternoon.

 

This went on for years, and he became a local landmark, “You go down the road and turn left at the big black dog…” they used to say.

 

But things change and one day the butchers shop at the top of the road closed for good; Butch’s blockade may have been partially responsible, but the butcher spared our feelings, gracefully explaining through gritted teeth, whilst eyeing Butch balefully, that he blamed the new supermarket that had opened up around the corner.

 

The next day, finding the butchers shop closed, the big dog pushed his way into the dusty shop next door and immediately transferred his affections to the frail old lady called Ruby who worked there as a seamstress.

 

Ruby must have been at least eighty years old, she enjoyed the old dog’s company and made a fuss of him whenever he visited, she’d also insist on buying him small treats from her pension money, despite our protests, and it wasn’t long before he visited her every day.

 

After a few hours, he would reluctantly come back home, usually just in time for a walk to the newsagents for the evening paper. We were a little concerned that he seemed to be sleeping a lot after his daily visits and it wasn’t until we mentioned this to Ruby that she admitted she’d been giving him saucers of milk laced with brandy ‘to perk him up’ – no wonder he was sleepy - he was drunk!

 

Ruby eventually ended up in a local old people’s home, ten minutes walking distance away, longer if the old dog’s joints were playing up that day.

 

Sadly, Ruby’s dementia meant she didn’t recognise me, but she always remembered Butch and patted him, a grateful smile on her face that her faithful companion hadn’t abandoned her.

 

One old lady and one old dog looked at each other, Ruby’s wispy hair and his grizzled muzzle were the same shade of grey. As their noses touched he wagged his tail, very slowly, and licked her face affectionately.

 

Ruby died a few months later, peacefully in her sleep, and a week later, so did Butch.

 

…………............…..................……………Sheffield Forum Writers' Group

Edited December 3, 2009 by Mantaspook
added a comma / moved a line

[coyleys 10]

That was a cracker Mantas.

I’m just so glad there was no dialogue in there, or that would have been a good contender for the monyhly comp.

Sorry about the spelling, but it is Saturday night.

Nice one mantas.

[Strix 11]

That's fantastic Mantaspook - everything owning a dog should be about

(nearly had me in tears at the end *cough* *checks nobody's looking* )

 

... and we'd like to thank the kind member who sent us a donation directly to the coffers

 

thank you very much for your generosity!

[Strix 11]

I hope this doesn’t mean we are to be invaded by hoards of scantily clad young maidens camping out on our front lawn, demanding our autograph and a lock of our golden hair.

Well I don’t know about the rest of the group but mine is in short supply at the minute.

Are you going to write that up as a story?

 

... has anybody read 'Marley and Me' btw?

[coyleys 10]

Are you going to write that up as a story? ?

 

 

At the moment I’m strugerly to talk, never mind write.

---------

I'm sorry, I'd better go to bed befire I make a fool of myself.

Night. Night.

[scotty225 10]

I can't type that well when I'm sober. Life's just not fair!

[coyleys 10]

... has anybody read 'Marley and Me' btw?

 

No, not yet but I will make a point of it.

 

http://www.marleyandme.com/

[Mantaspook 14]

Another possible story for the newsletter, oh all right, it's not about dogs...does it count?

 

A cat’s life

 

One day Saint Peter had just sat down with a nice cup of tea when the doorbell rang.

BING BONG! He tutted, then made his way to the pearly gates, muttering under his breath that there was no rest for the wicked.

 

He opened the gates and looked out, but no-one was there.

 

“Bloody kids!” he thought, he was just about to shut the gates when he heard a polite little voice quietly say hello. The voice appeared to be coming from very low down, somewhere near his feet, the mist eddied and swirled, then parted to reveal a very old cat, sat down in front of the pearly gates.

 

“Hello Puss.” said Saint Peter “Would you like to come into heaven?”

 

“Yes please” said the cat, and with some difficulty he got up and walked stiffly through the gates.

 

“My, you do look tired!” said Saint Peter.

 

“I used to work on a farm.” Said the cat “It was overrun with mice, hundreds of them!”

 

“They must have kept you busy!”

 

“Oh! they were everywhere, I was always chasing them off, no wonder I’m so tired!”

 

Saint Peter felt sorry for the bedraggled old cat, then he had an idea. “Come over here puss, I have just the thing for you.” And he showed the cat a velvet cushion that was positioned near a large glowing coal fire. “Why don’t you rest here until you feel better?”

 

The cat thanked Saint Peter and snuggled down into the cushion, before long he was purring in his sleep.

 

A few days later the doorbell rang again, and once more, there was no-one there. “We’re down here!” said a tiny voice. Saint Peter looked down and saw a large group of shivering mice.

 

“Hello mouses” said Saint Peter, (who wasn’t very good at collective nouns) “Would you like to come into heaven?”

 

“Yes please.” Said their leader, and the mice hobbled slowly through the pearly gates.

 

“My goodness, whatever has happened to you all?”

 

“We used to live on a farm.” Said the head mouse “And we were chased ragged by the farm cat before he died a few days ago, so our feet really hurt!”

 

Saint Peter had another one of his ideas “I have just the thing.” He announced and brought out several pairs of tiny roller skates for the mice to wear. “Now if you skate down there you’ll meet an old friend sitting by the fire.” The mice put on the skates and with a Weeee! And a Woooo! they gleefully rolled in the direction that Saint Peter had indicated.

 

Several days later Saint Peter passed the old cat in the street and he asked if he was settling in. With a wink he asked if the cat had any visitors recently.

 

“Oh yes.” said the old cat. “Thank you for organising that, the meals on wheels were absolutely delicious.”

[Strix 11]

It does indeed count, thank you Mantaspook - RainRescue also helps cats