A Normal Dog

Everything's hungry.

A Normal Dog
by CS Harris

There was a scratching at the door. The old man turned his head and listened. It came again, low on door, near the ground. A soft whimper accompanied it.

“It’s a dog,” the old man thought as he stood up from his chair. “A normal dog.”

Normal people knocked on the old man’s door. Turned people scratched. Turned dogs scratched, too, but only normal dogs whimpered. Turned people and turned dogs got a faceful of buckshot. Normal people got sent away, unless they had something of value to trade. Food, ammunition, medicine, flesh…but a normal dog was always welcome inside the old man’s home.

The old man peered out the window beside the door, and through the grime and dirt of years of neglect, descried an adult male German Shepherd hound, its coat matted and dusty, but otherwise healthy in appearance. He unlatched the door and eased it open a crack.

The dog backed away, dropped its head, whimpered again, then raised its head and panted. Its tail was down in a submissive posture.

The old man opened the door wide enough to admit the canine. “C’mere, boy, c’mon,” he said playfully, patting his thigh. The animal took a few tentative steps forward, then stopped, whimpered. “C’mon, puppy, c’mere. That's a good puppy,” the old man coaxed. The dog padded slowly inside and the old man shut and latched the door behind them.

The old man moved into the kitchen area and beckoned the dog to follow. He fetched a plate from the cupboard over the useless sink, a can of beef stew from an adjacent cupboard, and rummaged in a drawer until he found a can opener. He set the cold meal on the floor in front of the dog, which laid to ravenously.

“What's your name, boy?” the old man asked, a smile stretching his lips. “Duke? Buster? Something cliché, like Fido? No? Well, you're a German Shepherd, so...Merkel? Panzer? ...Adolph?” The old man chuckled to himself, but the dog gave no indication that the old man had hit upon his name.

“What about...Skipper?” At this, dog stopped eating and looked up at the old man, licking stew off his lips.

“Ah-ha! Your name is Skipper!” The old man spooned another can of stew onto the dog’s plate. “Eat up, Skipper!”

The old man eyed the dog as it demolished the second helping of stew. “Honestly, though, Skipper--it doesn't really matter what you were called before,” the old man said as he pulled a long knife from a drawer, “because I'm gonna call you Dinner.”

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The old man eased the door open and scanned around for any hostiles. Seeing none, he took a plastic bag and upended its red, dripping contents into a dog bowl, just outside the door.

Reviews

[Al Javier]

There's just something charming with dogs in the apocalypse, like a sign of hope, or at the very least, warmth and company.

Interesting yet subtle world building you have going on here. While I'm not exactly sure what the turned people are, I'll assume it's a word that means zombie. Whatever they are, they're not any more dangerous than normal people I guess. Everything is in fact hungry.

I do genuinely feel bad for Skipper, as I have several puppies myself, but who could blame the old man eh? He's probably just doing what he can to survive. Although we don't know much from him, not even his name, yet he still somehow stands out through his actions. I say good on both the dog and the old man.

I'd give this one my thumbs up. I want to know more from this world if I'm honest. If there is, I'll definitely read it.

[CS Harris]

Thank you very much for your positive feedback. You are correct in your assumption that the Turned are zombies. I take my cues from classic sci-fi, which often left exposition to the reader.

[Troy Adamson]

I have to admit, the line "because I'm gonna call you Dinner" caught me off guard. Didn't see that coming, and that's always preferable to predictable outcomes. You could build this into something much more defined and encompassing.

[Daniel Seward]

Poor Skipper. He could have been great company instead of a meal. Story could have been more poignant if it had a conflict in the man's mind concerning keeping the dog verses eating it. But perhaps the man was too firmly in survival mode at this point.