Friday, February 24, 2012

Talking Dogs

By Joseph W. Patterson

Alex kissed her on the cheek, and she kissed him back.  He then reached for her crotch,

but she grabbed his wrist to keep his wandering hand at bay.

  “Come on baby.”  Alex said with a wine in his voice.

  “I like to kiss Alex, nothing else.”  she replied kissing his cheek again.

  “I’m so hard though.  I need you.”

  “I know.”  she said while grinding against his leg.  “I need you too.  I need you to kiss


  “I ain’t gonna kiss you unless you touch me, and that’s the way it’s gonna be!”

Alex was very frustrated and annoyed.  Who did this girl think she was?  She was in

his house, his bed, and she thought she was the boss?  And then it dawned on him.  Who

was this girl?

  “Okay Alex.  I’ll touch you, and I’m going to kiss you.”  she said while grabbing his


  Alex closed his eyes and moaned.  She had a firm grip and she kissed his cheek

relentlessly.  The more she kissed the tighter the grip, and who was this girl?  Girl.

GIRL!  He opened his eyes and George Washington was beside the bed holding his dick,

while this girl vigorously kissed his cheek.

  “Alex!  Shame on you!  This girl is only thirteen!  Why are you fornicating with a little

girl?”  George Washington said while stretching his penis beyond logical proportions.

  Alex was dumbfounded.  He didn’t know either.  This was beyond him.  His cock was

about two feet long from George Washington’s intentional vandalism.  His cheek was

being kissed raw from an underage cheek nymph.  And he just realized that this was

Monday morning and he had to get to work. “Mr. President.”  Alex said as calm as he
could.  “If you please unhand me, I could explain.”

  “Explain!”  The president exclaimed.  He then stretched  Alex’s Johnson another foot.

  “You fuck the slaves!  Not the innocent girls of the colonies!”  He then stretched Alex’s

dinger an astonishing three more feet.  “The slaves Alex!”  And then George Washington

was in a rage.

  Tears ran down Alex’s cheeks and his underage nymph lapped them up.

“KISS ME!”  she demanded.

  “Please Mr. President!  I have to go to work!”  Alex pleaded.

  “You will lay here and work on your manners while I work on your penis!”  The

president said as he stretched  it beyond all comprehensible limits.

  “Kiss ME, ME, ME!”  cried the nymph as she licked his cheek to a bloody mess.

  “Mr. President!  I have to go!”  Alex screamed.

  “Go to hell you will, and your succubus will take you!”  George Washington said as he

stretched Alex’s ding dong to the next room.

  “KISS ME, ME, ME!”  She screamed.

  “Fuck the slaves!”  Washington demanded.

  “KISS ME, ME, ME!”  She shouted.

  “Fuck the slaves!”  Washington ordered.

  “KISS ME, ME, ME!”  She belted.

  “Fuck the slaves!”  Washington declared.

  “KISS ME, ME, ME!”

  “KISS ME, ME, ME!”

  ME, ME, ME

  ME, ME, ME

  ME, ME, ME

    Alex awoke in a pool of sweat with his alarm clock blaring, and King licking his


  “Get down King.”  Alex said as he shut off the alarm clock.


  Alex placed his feet on the floor and rubbed his eyes.  That was a weird ass dream.

He never dreamed of George Washington before.  He never dreamed of George

Washington crossing the Delaware.  He never dreamed of George Washington fighting

British.  He never dreamed of George Washington standing around doing presidential

stuff.  So why would he dream of George Washington touching his penis?  Dreams

were unconscious crazy things.  And if he wanted George Washington to touch and

stretch his penis, well that’s where he was going to keep it.  In his dreams.  The dream

was starting to fade away, and he was glad about that.  He was also glad about getting up

on time.

  “Thanks King.”  he said while petting his dog.  King just sat and panted.  Why were

Mondays the worst?  The worst getting up.  The worst getting ready.  The worst out of

anything.  Well maybe George Washington pulling your dick off was worst, but Mondays

were a close second.

  Alex slowly got up and headed for the bathroom and King followed.  He pissed, hacked,
and started to brush his teeth.  As he started brushing, he looked at his reflection and saw

King in the bottom right hand corner of the mirror, and two things jumped in his mind

 simultaneously.  The Mighty Dog commercials, and “What a Man” by Salt N Peppa.  

  “What a dog, what a dog, what a mighty good dog.”  Alex sung as tooth paste froth

overcame his bottom lip and gathered on his chin.  And King seemed to smile as he sat.

  King was a ninety pound, pure blood German Shepard.  His papers and blood line could

be traced as far back as the Vikings, but that couldn’t be verified.  The guy he bought him

from said that, but he had no papers, and the guy sold him out of a shopping cart in front

of Wal-Mart.  But that didn’t matter.  He was handsome, smart, and easily housebroken.

The greatest of companions, that’s what King was.  

  “We need meat King.”  Alex said as he headed for the kitchen.


  Alex opened the fridge, and explored the vast emptiness of it’s white plastic shelving.

There was no meat to be found.  No sausage, no bacon, not even a slice of bologna to

fry up.

  “No meat King.  I guess I’m having air pudding and coffee, and you’re having Iams

and water.”


  Alex grabbed the coffee pot and turned toward the sink.  He started filling it to his usual

four cups, and then realized he’d better make it eight for King.  He poured it in the coffee

maker, added the filter, and went back to the fridge for the coffee, and his balls began to

ice over.

  “King?”  Alex asked.

  Alex stared at the fridge.  His balls weren’t literally iced over, but they were numb.

They were that crazy numb that happens before pissing your pj‘s.  You might have to

be a guy to understand, but they do go numb before you piss.  It slowly dawned on him

that King, his dog, just talked.  He said coffee.  He said coffee like a statement.  He said

coffee like he would like a cup (or bowl), and if that was the case, he’d have to make

more than usual.  What if there wasn’t enough coffee to make eight cups?  What if there

was only enough to make four?  Even worse, (more worse than Mondays or a penis

stretching President) that there wasn’t any coffee?  Then he would have to tell King that

there wasn’t enough, and King would answer.  He didn’t want to hear an answer, because

dogs didn’t talk.

  Alex, still staring at the fridge, asked King if he would like some coffee.

  “Yes,  I want coffee.”

  “Do you want cream and sugar?”


  Alex pissed his pj‘s.

  King’s voice was the smooth rough oxymoron of a soft mink coat drug over red hot

burning coals.  It was soothing to listen to, and his tone had a sophistication to it, but

not his choice of words.  He had the speech of an intelligent second grader.  Basic words

with a greater understanding.  Alex noticed that right off the bat.  As they spoke, he’d

look straight into his eyes and knew something more grand was going on than what he

was saying.  They got along great.  Just like old friends who haven’t talk to each other

for awhile.  And as the morning went on, Alex forgot about the pissing of the pj’s, and

enjoyed his best friend’s company.

  “Wow King, I didn’t know you could smell that good.”

Kings just sat and wagged his tail against the smooth hardwood floor.

  “So, you’re saying , when I fart in the bedroom you can smell it in the living room? “



  “Yes, and I can hear it.”

  “Damn King, you’re superhuman!”

  “No, I’m a dog.”

  When King said that, it dawned on Alex that he was a dog.  He was talking to his dog.

Everyone always wondered what went on with dogs when they slightly twist there head

to a certain sound.  Or why they go crazy when the mailman comes.  What a golden

opportunity to find out what you never truly knew.

  “Why do you chase cats?”  Alex asked.

  “Because it’s fun.”  King replied.

  “Why do you lick your balls?”  asked the Alex.

  “Because it feels good.”  replied the dog.

  “Why do knock over the trash can?”

  “Because I smell good things, and I’m hungry.”

King then stood and his tail quit wagging and he said “Alex, I’m Hungry.”

  “Me too homeboy.  Lets see what...”  And then the phone rang.


  “Alex,  are coming in today?”

  It was Thomas, his boss.  He completely forgot about work.  But who could blame him?

He had a talking dog.

  “No Thomas.  I’m sick.  Sorry I didn’t call.  I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  “What the hell man!  I can’t run this joint by myself!”  Thomas yelled at the other end.

  “Sorry man.”

  “Sorry my ass!  Your the fifth fuck today not coming in!  If we wasn’t so behind, I’d

 fire your ass right now!  You don’t even sound sick!”

  Alex was getting a bit scared.  He’d called in before, but he had good reasons then.

Hangover, rain, CNN, Madden 12, but he was at a lost now, and he didn’t feel


  “Really Thomas, I’m sick.”  Alex said with a pathetically sick voice.

  “Oh yeah, with what?”

  Alex was stumped, like a chump, on a big girls rump.

  “I got... I feel... My stomach.  Damn my stomach. Thomas, this is bad.  I’m fucked up.”

  “No you’re not Alex.  Just get in here.”  Thomas pleaded.

  “Really Thomas I’m not right.”  Alex said starting to sweat.  “I got something bad in my

stomach.  I got...I got...”  Alex stammered lost.

  “Parvo.”  King interjected.

  “Parvo.”  Alex exclaimed triumphantly.

  “Parvo?  Alex are you fucking crazy?  That’s a goddamn dog disease!  You lying fuck!

Don’t worry about coming in!  As a matter of fact, I’m coming to you, and I’m gonna...”

  Alex hung up and wiped the sweat droplets from his brow. He was fired and worried.

Fired over a lame excuse.  Fired because his dog gave him a lame excuse.  Fired because

of his semi intelligent, loyal talking dog spoke up when he couldn’t and gave him an

excuse to call in sick to work.  Fired because Alex wanted to stay home and talk to his dog.

  “King I’m fucked.”  Alex said with his head in his hands.

  “Yes you are.”  King replied.

 Things started to sink in for Alex. He couldn’t afford to lose his job.  He was behind on

everything.  The gas bill, the water bill, the cable bill.  David Letterman was out now.


  “King!  We’re going on David Letterman and doing stupid pet tricks!”  Alex said as he

rose to magnificent proportions.

 “Won’t work.”  King said as he sat.

  “Oh yes it will!  You talk.  No dog talks.  You are the shit!  You’re going to talk us out

of poverty!”

  Alex started to pace the living room as he went over their routine.

  “We’ll come out and do some basic tricks.  Rollover, fetch, play dead, and when I say


  “I’ll talk.”  King interrupted.

  “Yes.  It’ll knock them dead.”

  “You’re fucked, and I’m going to eat you dead.”

  “No King, it’ll be easy.  I can call any ‘ole talent agent and you talk to them and we’ll

be in like Flynn.  Shit, we can skip the David Letterman!  We can go straight to the top,

whatever the top is.”

  Alex was in a psychotic thinking frenzy.  His mind was on money, and he was trying to

comprehend what was beyond Letterman.  A talking dog had to be worth something.

Movies?  Broadway?  Commercials?  Science? She blinded me with science.  Why was

King talking?

  “King we have it made now, but why are you talking?  I mean after all this time, why

are you talking?”

  King stood and said “Don’t know, but all the dogs are talking, and some cats too.”

  “Cats?”  Alex asked.

  “Yes cats.”  King replied.

  King then stood and walked toward Alex.  Drool slowly dangled from his freaky dog

lips as he exposed his extremely white canines and asked “Alex can’t you hear it?”

  Shocked Alex asked “Hear what?”

  “The great culling.”

Culling?  What the fuck was that?  Something about cooking?  Weird word for a dog that

just started talking.  But as he watched King walk toward him with the drool, the teeth,

and now the growl, he had an idea that it meant something ominous.  Ominous like biting

to kill.  Puncturing and tearing.  Using paws and claws to hold and rip, while teeth and

jaws tore through skin and veins to let blood drip.  Or maybe splatter.  Splatter like he

seen time and time again on You Tube.  Ferrets fighting.  Golden Eagles taking down

deer with their powerful claws and their unforgiving knifing beaks.  Lions taking down

prey with their piercing claws on backs and their powerful jaws and teeth on throats.

Crunching and suffocating.

  “King, what the fuck?” Alex asked as his balls started to ice over again.

  “The fuck is what.”  King replied dripping drool and snarling.  

  Alex started to slowly back away as the numbness took over and piss crept down his leg

for the second time today.  And King sniffed the fear of his prey as it dumbfounditly

backed away at a dying snails pace.

   “I can still make coffee King.”  Alex said while holding up his hands in a peace


  “To late for coffee, the culling has begun.”

  Alex could hear it now.  Mrs. Tyler’s three Boston Terriers, Terry, Tommy, and Tinker,

were hurling the most hateful profanities at her as she screamed across the street.  Next

door he heard Mr. Tucker’s Mastiff Bonk smash through the back door, then he heard

gunshots.  A pack, or more like an army of dogs, ran down the alley sounding similar to

a crash of rhinos because of their numbers.  And then there was King.  Drooling, snarling,

and slowly advancing on him whispering vile things like hungry, killing, and eating.

  Alex had a hunch that his status as Alpha Dog was over, but he had to try and take

some sort of control of this situation.

  “King!”  Alex barked, “Sit!”.

  King still advanced, and Alex cowardly retreated until he was backed against a wall.  He

pressed his back solidly against it and wished that he could phase through it, but that’s

just wishful thinking.  King stood in Alex’s latest pj’s pissing, and braced himself for the

pounce.  Alex thought that maybe he would slip in his piss when he pounced, but that was

unlikely, he had to make a last stand.

  “King!  You’re not going to eat me, and that’s the way it’s going to be!”  Alex ordered.

  “George Washington.”   King replied, and then he lunged.

  Alex’s odds were slim to none. Not because King was an animal bent on killing him and

had the perfect accessories to do so.  It was because King brain fucked him.  Something

similar to a Jedi mind trick, but with slight differences.  As King leaped for the kill and

said George Washington, Alex was wondering if King read his mind when he was dreaming.

 Or did King make him dream of George Washington.  Or was there really a

succubus in his bed that King saw and she told him of George Washington.  Or the real

kicker,  George Washington got all the dogs talking to take over the world.  All this went

through Alex’s mind when King went for the kill, and he was unable to defend himself.

  King’s attack was straight and true.  He landed perfectly parallel on Alex’s body, with

his mouth locked on to his face.  As Alex slumped over, he quickly shifted his head down

to his throat, and clamped.  He knew it would be a quick kill because vital organs were

severed.  Blood gushed into his mouth when his canines punctured Alex’s throat, and

then there was a rush of air as he clamped down and pulled.  “Wind pipe.” King thought

as he held on until the air quit flowing and Alex quit moving.

 After killing Alex, King trotted to the living room window, sat, and listened.  His new

found intelligence was starting to fade, but that didn’t matter, he liked the glorious things

he heard.  A cat in a crib, scratching out a baby’s eyes.  A scurry of squirrels piling on an

elderly woman at a bus stop. And Jinx, the rat terrier, tearing into little Jimmy’s back

pack to eat his homework.    


  Joseph W. Patterson resides in a shack on the haunted plains of Kansas with a dog
that wags his tail as he bites people.
  His works can be found online at 69 Flavors of Paranoia, New Flesh, Clockwise
Cat, and recently in print with Pill Hill Press 2012 Daily Frights Anthology.


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