Write On!

              DOG GONE LUCKY
Marilee Kosik, Darwell W. I.
1st Place, Fiction, 2002
It wasn't the fleas that bothered me or even his smell. I contributed
my share of those. In most ways, actually, he was a great companion. He was
loyal, didn't ask questions and didn't bum my smokes. But the one habit he
had that annoyed me to distraction was his snoring.
My name is Richard, I am thirty- six years old, and I am an alcoholic.
A year ago I had a job uptown, a family and a house in the suburbs. Most
bosses, mine included, can't retain an employee who chronically shows up
late, if at all, and is in no shape to deal with the public when he is there. Wives
expect, rightly so, a husband who is faithful, dependable and sober. Friends
eventually give up on a man who lies to them and borrows money he will
never repay. That explains, at least partly, why I was living in a cardboard box
under a bridge, now sharing with a flea- bitten, smelly dog that snores.
He just showed up a few weeks ago. At first, he would hang around
my camp and I occasionally threw him scraps. I would leave each day to
panhandle for money to buy booze and return later to drink myself into a
stupor. Sometimes in the night I would hear a strange noise and sense a
warmth but, rather than investigate, I would return to my alcohol induced
sleep. Then yesterday morning I awoke early, hung over but sober, and rolled
over to find the dog curled up to my back.
He was the most decrepit, dirty, shaggy mutt that I had ever
encountered. Mid- sized, possibly part collie, some sheepdog and the
remainder unknown, he looked like he had hit on some hard times. It appeared
that, at one time, he had been white but his matted hair was now a dirty gray.
He had a black patch over his one functioning eye, an ear badly chewed from
some ancient fight and recently healed scabs on his hindquarters. He wore no
collar, no identification; a stray like me.
" Well dog", I greeted him, " you sure do help keep the old homestead
warm. I don't have food for you, but you're welcome to share the box." He
gave me a calculating look from his one good eye, turned around a couple
times to arrange his bed, lay down, tucked his nose under his tail and went to
sleep. That's how the dog and I became roommates. I had no prescience of
how important this relationship would be in my life.
When I awoke later the need for a drink held precedence over my
hangover so I ventured out, planning to panhandle enough for a small meal
and a big bottle of cheap whiskey. But this day, as I headed to my favorite
area, the dog followed along. After scoping the area for a good location and
checking to be sure there were no cops in evidence, I uncased my scratched
and scarred guitar, my only worldly possession, lowered myself to the
pavement and began to pick an old tune. In my rush to raise enough cash for
that first, much needed drink I'd almost forgotten my new sidekick.