Imperial Dog
“Bonjour mama . . . Salut papa. Je suis à la maison. Je serai dans la cour arrière avec Pierre.”
Ten-year-old, Jimmy ran through the kitchen, threw his backpack on the counter and ran out the sliding glass doors into the backyard.
Sarah, called after her son, “Have fun!”
His father, Randell “Bocephus” Cline, looked up from his computer at the kitchen table and caught the attention of his wife. “That’s your fault,” he said.
Sarah looked up from her dishes. “We agreed that he could pick out his own dog.”
“Yeah, but a French . . .” he settled for, “poodle?”
“There is nothing wrong with a poodle,” said Sarah.
“It’s a French . f . . . poodle.” Said Bocephus. “Now, he has to learn French?!”
“I think it’s sweet . . . he has taken an interest in another language and culture. It’s better than him playing war games all day. Look he’s outside.”
“Sarah, he thinks the dog talks to him . . . in French no less.”
Sarah came over to rub her husband’s shoulders . . . asking, “Didn’t your dog talk to you?”
“No,” he said, “I talked to it. Fetch, roll over, play dead . . . that sort of thing. In English.”
“You had an Australian Sheppard and you spoke to it with an accent,” said, Sarah.
Bocephus nodded his head and smiled. “Yeah, the ol’ Boomer, he always came back with whatever you threw.”
“Still, I didn’t have to learn another language.”
“I’m just saying Tim could have picked an Irish Setter. A Scottish Terrier . . . an American bulldog.”
Sarah walked back to the kitchen and looked into the oven. “I know what you are really saying.”
Bocephus closed his laptop and set it aside on the counter. It’s a matter of time now, he thought. I’ll just sit here silent and wait. 3 . . . 2 . . . 1.
“You’re Xenophobic," said Sarah.
Bocephus rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “Why don’t you just say that I’m prejudiced, bigoted, and racist instead of having to use that big word.”
“Because you are not racist or a bigot . . . you don’t care what race a person is or their opinion . . . as long as they are Northern European descended. Xenophobic.”
“3 . . . 2 . . . 1.”
“And I can prove it.”
“Oh, dear . . . please do,” Bocephus’ face slipped fully into his palm.
Sarah took a deep breath and began. “Let’s play a game. I’ll say a dog breed and you give me 1 to 10.”
Bocephus raised his head and meshed his fingers like an interested schoolboy. “Ok . . . spit it out.”
“English Sheepdog”
“10”
“Alaskan Malamute”
“10”
“American Eskimo dog.”
“10"
“Ok, let’s make it a little harder,” said Sarah.
“Siberian husky.”
“Still a 10.”
"Dachshund."
“Eww, aww 8.”
“Border Collie.”
“8 ½”
“Welsh Terrier.”
“8”
“Shiba Inu.”
“To the moon!”
Then, Sarah said, “Chihuahua.”
“That’s not fair!” Bocephus said, “I hate that dog!”
“Xenophobic . . . call your son, it’s time for dinner.”
Randell “Bocephus” Cline stood at the glass sliding doors. He expected to see his son throwing a tennis ball or something, and the curly-white-fur dog chasing it. Instead, he watched his son and the poodle sitting at the patio table. Timmy looked like he was carrying a conversation. The dog sat upright, its elbow propping him on the armrest giving him a scary human-like quality; smiling all the while.
Bocephus opened the doors and called. “Timmy, time to come in and get your Northern European style broiled chicken. We Vikings just love it."
“Oui,” said Timmy.
Timmy ran to the dining area and jump into place at the table. The poodle trailed behind him. “How was your day?” Bocephus asked.
“Bon, bon,” said Timmy. "Pierre, m'aidait avec mon Français."
“In English, Timmy, this is a pagan only banquet.”
“I’m sorry dad, I just didn’t want to leave Pierre out.”
“The dog’s going to be ok . . . trust me. He won’t miss a thing.”
“He doesn’t speak English,” said Timmy.
“Timmy, you are the dog’s Master. You teach him . . . not the other way around. You don’t have to study culinary arts because of a poodle. You can still play football, and take classes in metal shop at school. Like a regular kid.”
Sarah came near the table with dishes and said, “Go wash up, Tim.”
To Bocephus she said, “Is that what you are worried about . . . he's not going to get a concussion before he’s twelve?” Sarah walked back to the kitchen.
Right then the poodle jumped up on to Timmy’s chair. “No . . . no . . . no.” said Bocephus. “You get down now!” With his hand, he pointed and snapped his fingers. “Out . . . outside,” he said it loudly and the poodle jumped off the chair and walked toward the open sliding glass doors.
“I should get a German Shepard . . . you’ll know who's boss then," he said to the poodle.
The little curly-white-fur poodle stopped, turned, and said,
“You . . . American pig-goat," and then trotted out the door.
“I knew it,” said Bocephus, “He can speak English.”
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This is my submission for this weeks writing contest . . . at:
Artwork by Henry Gant.
Thank you
Henry Gant.