One Hell of a Dog

“You sayin ya want' for ma' doags to faller yer doag?”

“Yes I do,” I said.

"See where he go to?"

"Yes."

“Ya got whut kand'r doag, zactly?”

“He's a miniature Doberman-Pincher-cross with an apple-head-Chihuahua.”

Zack Zachary looked at me like he'd never ever, not in all his borne days...

I waited to be asked if I was from New York City.

Instead, I came clean-- “My dog has been shitting diamonds!”

He looked at me like I was far away.

“Yessur!” I brought out the leather bag and showed him six one-karate-sized diamonds.

He peered down at the sparkling pebbles in my palm; “I had a coon-doag shit out a cat wernce,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Nothin' but bone.”

“Huh,” I said. Total agreement.

“Why'nt you and me have a pull 'er two; see what all we can figger out?”

I said that would be splendid and hoped against hope he didn't play the banjo. I followed along the weaving trail to a tiny, one-room cabin.

We sat with two jars of moon. The fireplace was cold. It was October, early afternoon, and we sat head-to-head in the half-light with our chairs turned backwards and hound-dogs out back baying endlessly.

Zack was leaning forward. “You doag shits diamonds?”

“Yessir,” I said.

“... That's a hellava doag...”

We clicked preservative-jars in total agreement.

“You'ta artist-fatsey-feller' inja Mayfield place!”

I said yes to that question and quite a few others. He asked me if I had a wife and I said no. I told him my dog shit diamonds six days in a row.

He offered me another drink or two. Soon the fire-place was lit and the sun was gone. Then I woke up to a cold fire in an empty room. The first thing I noticed was the hound-dogs were quiet.

299 Words