The hangover hounded me all day, left me seeing spots, sick as a dog. I’d spent the night previous chasing my tail at the old watering hole, trying to forget the lady (the tramp) that marked my heart like a fire hydrant. She told me she’d always be loyal. And she was, right before she up and strayed. It was going to take more than a few Greyhounds to shoo her memory away.

As I self-medicated with a little hair o’ the dog, there came a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I whimpered.

He didn’t have to throw me a bone. All it took was one look to know the guy wanted to see me at the end of a rope. Or, more specifically, a leash.

“Hey buddy,” he said, giving me puppy eyes big as a dinner bowls. “You look a little ruff.”

“What’s it to ya,” I growled back, but my bark was worse than my bite. He was going to get what he wanted, sure. But I wasn’t going to beg for it.

“Heard you howling last night,” he said, “thought maybe a walk would cheer you up.”

He had the scent all right, I had been inside with my tail between my legs for too long. Maybe if I got some fresh air I could forget my troubles for a while, let sleeping dogs lie.

“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy!?” he panted as we trotted out the door. I didn’t bite. Good? Bad? What’s it matter when we all end up in the same place. The important thing was I was feeling better. And as long I focused on putting one foot in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other, maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to heel.

[Commissioned piece. RIP Ant]

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