Francine, the border collie, rolled around in the shade beneath the canopy of the red maple tree at the edge of Samson’s property. She held a grimy, neon yellow tennis ball in her mouth and tried to remember what the blue, squishier ball smelled like. Samson used to swap out the toys for fetch. Some days it was tennis balls, other days, it was the blue balls. They felt like a blanket-breeze to Francine, and she missed them.
Samson sat on the back of the lawnmower and watched his dog relaxing under the red maple tree, brushing aside a pang of envy. When was the last time he could play without a care? Keeping Francine stimulated so she didn’t chew through his pile of plaid hand towels wasn’t what he would call worry-free recess. It was work. It was fun, but it was still work. His best friend assured him that it was normal to wish he could swap places with his dog for a day, if only to know what it really felt like to live primarily on instinct without any regard for etiquette or the number of times he’d have to wash his hands because he touched a muddy pitchfork or to clean Francine’s paws.
Samson didn’t think it was normal, though, to look at the furry companion he had since he was an obnoxious fifteen-year-old with bitterness. Francine had been nothing but a great pet. Quick to excitment, of course, but she was a fast learner. It only took a couple of weeks for him to train her how to open giant bags of potato chips without making a mess. Samson wasn’t sure why he felt the need to teach her how to do that since he didn’t even like potato chips that much, but it was such a random trick, that he thought it as good as any task he could teach a dog.
Francine pranced down the hill towards the lawnmower after she’d had her fill of staring at the sky and shimmying up, down, and around the earth. She observed her human friend, head slightly tilted to one side, and one ear flopped down to better assess the energetic tone of the moment. She sensed a weak but unmistakable membrane of sandpapery grayness. Her friend was not his usual self. He smelled like an old dish rag soaked in apple cider vinegar overnight instead of his typical aroma of donut and bacon. Francine put her nose on the top of Samson’s left shoe and gazed up at him. She was concerned; she needed to know what was wrong with her friend that would make him smell so bad.
Samson leaned forward and looked down at Francine. His right hand reached down to scratch the back of her ears and didn’t get too many repetitions in before she started licking his hand. She stopped just about as soon as she started. Her mouth hung open, her tongue lolled out, and she panted before sneezing. Samson smelled his right hand and then his left, and made the same face that Francine did. What was that smell? It was like the sweetness of decay and feet…feet sprayed with movie theatre popcorn mist. He returned his eyes to Francine, who continued watching him. Neither of them knew what to do, so they stayed still until they heard the foxes that lived in the forest; they were screaming.
Original pic cred: Alex Bello, unsplash
Sitting Pugs: Sports Movies 