Brutus - Flash Fiction

BRUTUS

            “Harold. Harold!”

            “What? Pearl, I’m right here in the barkerliner.  Not need to be shout’n at me.” Harold turned his head toward where he knew Pearl’s overstuffed chair sat and squinted. 

            “It ain’t that.”

            “Ain’t what?”

            “You’re recliner.  It ain’t what you called it.”

            Harold could detect exasperation in her voice. “Is too.  I’ve been sittn’ in it nigh on fifteen-years.  You’d think I’d know what I’m sitting on.”

            “Well, that may be, but it ain’t that.  It’s something like that, but that ain’t it.”

            Remembering something he heard on television, he felt sure he could clear it up.  “Pearl, it’s tomato or tomato.  Same thing.”  That would certainly settle it.

            “What?  You old coot.  What’s tomatoes got to do with anything?  Anyways, that wasn’t what I’s calling you for.”

            Feeling right proud of himself, Harold was satisfied his logic worked on her. “Alright Dear.  I’m listening.”

“That damn dog of your’n isn’t holdn’ up his end of the deal.”

            “Whatcha talkn’ about?  Sure, he’s done his part.  You said if he ran off that black and white cat you let in, he could stay in.  I’d say he did quite well, the smell is pertin’er all gone.  I stopped gagging a week ago.”

            “Well, that may be.  I ain’t throwed-up for a while now.  But little did I know he was going to eat everything in the house.  I ain’t got a Dollie left. It pulled off the kitchen table cloth and chewed it up.  It knocked over the trash can and commenced to eaten’ the wrappers off the cans.”

            He heard her slap something on the lamp stand.  Reaching over he felt it was her crotchet. “Sure, as hell, don’t know what to tell ya.  Them new Huskies are like that I reckon.  William shoulda warned us about their peculiar eat’n habits when he brought him out here thinkin’ the farm would give him space to run.”  Of all the kids, William was the only one to move half-hour away to Kanas City.  “William said Brutus would help keep the weeds down along the drive. Never heard of a dog doing that before.  Or have I forgotten?  Dang.  No, must be one of them their foreign dogs. Yep, that’s it.  I remember seeing some of our dogs eating grass before, over the years, you know you’d seen em doin’ it too.”

            “That’s fur shur.  I ain’t been able to keep a decent flower bed since he showed up.” Pearl lamented.  “You get that dog out of the house.  Tell William he has to take ‘em back.”

            “Oh, for Pete’s sake.  We ain’t never had a dog that never barked before.  I kinda like that.  Gotta admit, Brutus sounds like a herd of wild horses running up and down the hallway.  I think he needs his nails clipped,” Harold said.

            “He ain’t housebroke.  I’m startn’ to get a bit put out cleaning up his messes. Get em out of here.  I think William’s is coming over today.”

            “Okay.  If you’re feeling so head strong about it. By the way, did I smell fresh baked cookies from yesterday?”

            “In the cookie jar.  That’s something else I had to deal with Brutus.  He just wouldn’t leave me alone while I was trying to shell the walnuts.”

            Harold snapped the recliner closed and instinctively navigated the known path through the living room where the furniture hadn’t been moved for decades.  A gray blur raced by clapping on the floor. “Brutus,” Harold called out, “don’t be running off.  We’re gonna’ go out after I get me a couple cookies."

            Retrieving two cookies from the jar, he stuck one in his mouth dangling between his lips. Turning he pushed the cookie half-way in this mouth and bit.

            Crunch.

            “What the hell, Pearl.  There’s shells in the cookies.”

            “Don’t go blaming me.  You’re the one that brought me that there eight-pound sledge to break’em with.  It was a chore separatin’ out from the meat.”

            “Sweetheart, you were supposed to put the walnuts on the sledge and break then with the little hammer.”

            “Well, I didn’t see no little hammer.  I put a newspaper down on the floor and broke 'em there mak’n two piles. That damn dog kept stick’n it’s nose in my business.”

            Harold kept chewing and spitting shell out in his hand.  “Don’t look to me there’s any walnut meat in these.  It’s all shell.”

            “Well, don’t that just beat all.  That damn dog’s fault.  I must’a scoped up the wrong pile to put in the batter.  Well, you don’t like it don’t eat em.  Or go out on the porch and spit shells in the yard like watermelon.”

            With a big sigh, Harold dropped his hand to his waist and instantly Brutus snagged the cookie, taking off with a clatter down the hallway.  Harold pinned him at the end of the hallway, holding his breath where the lingering smell was the strongest.  Trapped under his arm he carried Brutus out the door and let it snap shut behind him.

            A few minutes later he came back in, stomped down the hall to the bedroom and slammed around awhile.  Finally, he came out and plopped into his barkerliner. 

            “Well?” Pearl asked.

            “Well, what?”

            “What’da do with Brutus?”

            “I stuck him in the old truck.  I’s gonna tak’em down to William’s but I can’t find the keys.”

            “That old truck ain’t run in thirty-years.  What you think’n?”

            “Stop pull’n my leg.  I had it out just a few days ago.  Anyways, that where the dang dog is when William comes over.”

Picture by Elazar Cohen