Avery Dog has his Day
by Steve Verge

Avery lifted his head from the man's never-before-slobber-saturated pillow and yawned. The soft, steady hiss from the shower in the master bathroom threatened to lull him back to sleep, but ultimately served as a reminder that his morning walk was long overdue.

Even though the bunched-up comforter was a little damp, he fought the urge to relieve himself where he lay. After all, he might choose to sleep there again, and even though he was a dog, he drew the line at sleeping in his own urine. Raising his rear end into the air, he arched his back downward in an elongated stretch. He pushed himself up with his front paws, dropped down to the floor, and wandered into the walk-in closet.

Freshly dry cleaned suits shrouded in plastic wrap stood sentinel over the off-limits closet. He stopped in front of a particularly dark one, reached up with one paw, and dragged his claws down the flimsy wrap to expose the unsullied fabric. Lowering his head he pushed forward, the material catching in spots as it dragged across his back and over his rump. Several annoying tugs convinced him that he hadn't been missing much. He circled around and stopped to admire his handiwork. Golden hairs clung to the dark material in ostentatious splendor. The jacket swayed on its hanger, invoking images of the man's head shaking negative reinforcement while his foot slammed into Avery's side. Avery flinched as these not-so-long-ago memories of painfully learned lessons threatened to overpower his newly claimed confidence.

Suddenly comprehension struck. Avery's tail twitched to life and he let out a triumphant bark in the outdoor voice that he was forbidden to use indoors and rarely allowed to use outdoors. He strutted deeper into the closet, barking continually. He barked up the tie rack and up the shoe tree where assorted pairs of footwear rested, many of which had connected with his ribs at one time or another. He sniffed in the heavy aroma of the man, then lifted his leg and blasted a stream of urine across row upon row of the rib kickers. His bladder emptied before he could douse each and every pair in his own scent. Oh well, there'd be plenty of opportunity for that.

He spun around and marched out of the closet leaving faint, urine-enhanced paw imprints in the beige pile carpet. His erect tail wagged behind him. Once again the hiss of the shower spray called out to him, this time bringing attention to his dry post-nap throat. He stopped at the open bathroom door. Afternoon sunlight broke through parted curtains to illuminate the white porcelain of the forbidden bowl. His tongue drooped from the side of his mouth. Why not? he thought.

As he crossed the threshold, the hiss magnified through the power of bathroom acoustics. Its presence still carried an aura of intimidation, but it didn't matter--not anymore. Filled with bliss that few dogs ever know, he plunged his muzzle through the inviting ring and lapped at the forbidden bowl's plentiful water. Ah, water never tasted so good.

More than just quenching his thirst, the water represented a prize--a prize for enduring years of abuse from a man who had transferred every frustration and wrong ever done to him onto his pet. Avery removed his muzzle from the bowl. He posed straight and rigid, reminiscent of a pedigreed purebred accepting judgment. Excess prize spilled from his mouth, over the ring, down the outside of the bowl, and onto the linoleum.

But no matter how good that water tasted or how good the act of drinking it made him feel, it couldn't compare with the grand prize--the gold medal, the blue ribbon, the Best in Show award of the Avery Dog Once in a Lifetime Disobedience Show. He turned his head sideways and snapped his teeth around the edge of the shower curtain. Backing up, he tugged gently on the curtain, allowing the rings to slide down the length of the shower rod without pulling the whole thing down upon himself.

He stepped forward and craned his neck over the edge of the tub for a better view. The shower spray felt refreshing on top of his head. He was glad that the man preferred cold showers. His owner's body lay slumped in the bottom of the tub. Cold water pelted his flesh with enough force to wake the living. The water made its way over and around the body, then toward the drain where it pooled up slightly, but not enough to wash down the blood that had collected at that end of the tub. A clump of bloodied scalp dangled from one of the faucet handles that extended from the wall. If Avery had had the power to teach a dead body to roll over, he'd have seen that the clump of scalp corresponded to the gaping wound in the back of the man's head. Not that Avery would've noticed anyway; he was too busy admiring his own teeth marks on the man's ankle. He placed his mouth over the end of that same foot, bit down hard, and jerked it around like an old sock employed in a hotly contested game of tug of war.

There was no doubt about it. Avery was having a very good day.

Steve Verge is a past winner of the Killer Frog Award as well as recipient of an Honorable Mention in The 17th Annual Year's Best Fantasy and Horror for his story Critical Tribute which first appeared in Hastur Pussycat, Kill! Kill! Look for future stories in Modern Magic: Dark Tales Of Fantasy, Travel A Time Historic, Goremet Cuisine and Mind Scraps.