A Satanic Boston Terrier

A short story by Mitch Tacy

It was 11:09 in the morning on a Sunday when I woke up, feeling only a small percentage of happiness. I didn't feel like going back to sleep, which I guess was a bit unusual for a 14-year old. The ceiling stared back at me, mocking me. You're not gonna do anything today. You're just gonna lay there like a lazy little jerk. Maybe the ceiling was right. I didn't really feel like doing much today. There was little point in even getting up. But apparently, my feet didn't listen. Or they were just too stubborn to put up with the ceiling's hurtful words, because in a flash, I was up and out of the covers. As I stood up, I realized that my room was getting too small for me. The walls seemed to get closer every day. I reached up and found I was able to touch the ceiling. Forget touching, I wanted to punch it for mocking me. But I suppose it's just his nature. He didn't really mean to say those things. He's probably going through his own problems right now. God knows he needs me to be one of them. After I had dressed myself properly enough, I slumped downstairs, my feet falling harder down each step. The stairs were rather old, and every time I step on them they get more and more uncomfortable. They should be carpeted, or at least waxed. In fact, my whole house should be waxed. Then I could have some fun sliding around the floors. That would at least provide me with some entertainment. I turned right towards the kitchen once I passed the final step. For some reason, even after I had just eaten, the kitchen always seemed to make my stomach groan. I needed sustenance. The pantry was only a few yards away. I could make it. Through the hard and trying seconds of

dastardly hunger I trudged across the room in an attempt to get to the delicious and oh so satisfying Berry Berry Kix. The obstacles along the way surpassed each other; the table, where I had had so many delicious spaghetti dinners; the stove, the place on which I had cooked many a fresh pancake in my days; the island, on which the toaster lied, where I had several times stood waiting for the scrumptious bread to warm up and darken into the dry treat that went so well with butter. All of a sudden, something different caught my eye. There was a note on the refrigerator. I stopped, knowing that if I didn't stop quickly enough, my hunger would win over me. The note was from my mom and Trey. Dear Awldon, Ugh. I hated my name. Awldon. A-W-L-D-O-N. What kind of sick person names their kid Awldon? Is that even a name? I would've been happy with Rocco or Norman, or even Mitch. But Awldon!? That's torture. It disgusted me just reading the name. And the worst part of it was the pairing of it with my last name: Truman. Awldon Truman. Doesn't that name just make you wanna spit out your tongue and throw it against the wall? It kinda makes you think about what my mom was on when she went into labor. That aside, I continued reading. We've gone into Grand Rapids to attend a seminar. We should be back later tonight. --Mom & Trey I was surprised they had even left a note to me. They had been talking about this conference for a couple of weeks now and had never once directly spoken to me about it. It was one of those "Saving Your Marriage" seminars that involved one guy doing all the talking like he knows everything about healthy relationships even though he's been single for four years. Of course, I had only eavesdropped on these conversations. Mom and Trey were too busy fighting

over this and that to even notice I was still alive, let alone talk to me. My spirits lifted temporarily, as I realized my game might've come today! I had ordered it last Tuesday from Game-By-Air, and it hadn't come yet. Quickly, I slipped my shoes on and glided out the door to the spot where my mailbox once stood. What was left in its place was a splintered stump that used to be the post. Apparently some of the guys had been playing mailbox baseball, came up to my house, and hit a homer. This was perfect. My game could've been here! This day sucks. This life sucks. I believe it was at that thought when I turned around and saw a little Boston terrier sitting on the asphalt, staring at me blankly. The little guy locked his eyes with mine, and I found it hard to look away. I felt like I was looking into the eyes of a doll. Suddenly silence was starting to deafen me. I kept waiting for the dog to move, but it seemed that it didn't even breathe. It was just sitting, glazed eyes, tongue just barely hanging out. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. I started toward the house, watching for the pup to react. Nothing happened. As I passed it, I noticed its eyes had not changed position. Hiding my fear, I broke into a run up the steps, through the doorway, and slammed the door hard enough for the dog to hear, although I wasn't sure the dog was actually alive. It made me think of mom and Trey's feelings toward me. I looked around the house and felt a smile start to form. The dog was finally out there and I was inside now, free to just relax and watch TV and play video games. The game! I had forgotten to find the mailbox to see if the game had come. It was too late now. Man, I was really looking forward to playing it. The critics were raving in all of my magazine cutouts posted on my wall. It was too awesome to give up just because some satanic dog was on your driveway.

I reached for the doorknob, but was unable to make contact. I needed to know if it was still out there. Windows lined up to my right, each one with the shades pulled down. What I was doing made me feel like a creeper looking out his window for kids to snatch up. Rather slowly, I slipped two fingers in between the shades and separated them, giving me space to look out on the driveway near the fragmented post. Nothing was there. I must've been holding my breath, because the sigh of relief I had let out had a LOT of relief in it. With a renewed sense of confidence, I went for the door, turned the knob, and swung it open vigorously. And that's when logic caught up with me: mail doesn't come on Sunday. At this revelation, my knees collapsed and I gripped my hair to start pulling. You little idiot, I heard the ceiling exclaim. This whole episode was for nothing, you moron. I wanted to tell the ceiling to shut up and that I didn't need to feel even more idiotic, but the door was still open, and I was sure people would've been able to hear me. And who would've heard me best? The satanic terrier, who was sitting right in front of me, and who then trotted into my house before I could react. I turned, hoping to seize the mutt before he could get away, but the scamp had already disappeared. How fast was it? I didn't really want to get up after this feeling of defeat. Before I could think another thought, there was a squeak that could have come from one place and one place only: the couch in the living room. My butt rose up from the cold tiled floor and I ran to the dog even though there was no need to run, for I knew that the dog wasn't going anywhere. Our living room was only constructed with a few small but high windows and the doorway to the kitchen. If that pup was gonna try and pull a fast one, I would be there to catch him. And there he was. He sat on the couch, motionless, staring at the dark TV which wasn't

even plugged in at the moment. His eyes had reflected determination that seemed to project throughout the room. I matched his look as I slowly inched toward the smelly thing that had freaked me out rather quickly and still was. Carefully my hands reached out, all ten fingers aimed for him. His look remained forward, unsuspecting yet for some reason resolute. I didn't know how easily he was going to be taken down, but I knew I had to do it. I lunged forward, my arms closing in on the dog that mocked me with his presence. I caught nothing. That rascal had leapt straight up into the air and landed on my arms, which he used as a makeshift launch pad. He took off, scrambling around the entire room, looking for something on which to take out his adrenaline. In seconds he found his target. The lamp which my mom had won at an auction last month (with my allowance) tumbled down to the wood floor and shattered. Shards of ceramic lampshade were scattered across the entire area, and yet the terrier was able to dodge every piece. I was helpless to stop him in his explosion of energy. His next destination was the TV. I knew he was going to go for it; those eyes were revealing to me his plan piece by piece. In my mind were two scenarios: either he would run into the screen and crack his skull, or he would crash through and be at the mercy of all the sharp gears and thin wires. Not to sound barbaric, but I was hoping for the second situation in light of the damage he had done. Just as I had guessed, the mutt eyed the TV like a bull to a scrawny matador. In a flash he took off, and I was hooked on him, awaiting what would happen. I'm a horrible person, aren't I? The terrier was just a few feet away and probably half a second away from an abrupt halt, when just like that he cut a sharp turn to the right and did the unexpected and most irritating thing: he went for the power cord. As he bared his teeth, I realized how badly it would hurt to be chomped at by that thing (he's too smart and evil to keep being classified under dog). It seemed as if someone sharpened his fangs for an occasion such as this. His head bent down low and gripped

the wire in the instant it took me to blink and miss it. The wire was hopeless, doomed to his malevolent chompers. As that thing pulled a U-turn, the wire fell from his mouth, clearly torn to shreds. Then he turned toward me. I instantly went down on my knees and pled mercy to him, but his eyes told me that he was lost in the moment. Claws bared from his furry feet, showing intention to cut me open. My fate was set as I averted my face and feared for my life. I heard the running, getting closer every split second. Then the noise went around me, there was the unmistakable squeaking of the couch, and then the sound of glass shattering pierced my ears. My eyes opened and I turned to where I had heard it. Somehow the thing had leapt from the couch to the highest window in the living room, about 4 feet high and a yard away from the closest arm. I rose up and looked out. There was nothing to be found. No blood, no glass on the ground, no evidence was there but a broken window. I turned around and looked at the monstrosity that had been created this morning. I was speechless. Apparently the ceiling was too. At that moment he looked so prestigious compared to the floor. Then again, he always did just the teensiest bit. Carefully I avoided the clay from the lampshade and without expression or comprehensible mentality left the area and went upstairs to my room, where I planned on promptly falling asleep.

In about six hours, my mom and Trey would come home and find the living room desecrated. They would ground me for two months and make me work to repay the damages done, even though the cheap lamp was bought at my expense. They would blame each other for what a "problem child" I had become and disregard everything they had heard at the seminar. They would get a divorce and soon end up living about 400 miles away from each other. They would both compete for my love, even though Trey wasn't my real father. They would buy me

things, take me places, and shower me with love to try and win me over. All because of a satanic Boston terrier. I laid down on my bed and smiled at the ceiling, who smiled back. Nice job, Awldon. As I closed my eyes, I thought about how nice that name felt coming from his voice.