Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Jeff was a bit of an arsehole. Some of the dogs on Fig Street thought he had a superiority complex, and the others knew it. On the arsehole-scale, with 1 being Lassy and 10 being the type of dog who commences eating their owner within minutes of suffering a major stroke on the toilet, Jeff sat around 9.5.
As a pure bred, Jeff knew he was above the rest. In fact, he actively sought to offend all neighbourhood pooches that came near by wearing a collar announcing him as a racist (yes, it said “I’m Racist”, not “I’m prone to racism”, or “I occasionally harbour racist thoughts”, just plain “I’m Racist”, no excuses offered. Look, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one).
After one particularly nasty incident, where his adopted half-breed sister Lucy-Loo died suddenly (choked on a lamb chop), Jeff didn’t so much as piss in her general direction, let alone actually help her! Digging up her rotting corpse a few weeks later, he retrieved the lamp chop and set about making light work of it. He briefly considered burying it (which is like marinading for dogs) but then he thought perhaps Lucy-Loo had done that job for him.
So, as you can imagine, the Fig Street dog-gang were beside themselves with jubilance when they discovered that Jeff was having… well… a bit of a problem. You see, originally, Jeff was a fast-paced canine. He had respectably fast heritage after all (not that he thought much of his largely absent parents). For the past 35 dog-years he had reigned supreme among the Fig Street dogs as being quick as a jet plane. Don’t get me wrong, Jeff was lazy as fuck, but when he really wanted to, he could chase down anything! Man or beast, there was nothing he couldn’t catch, and everybody knew it.
And so it happened. On a sunny Wednesday afternoon he was tested, as he had been many times before, but this time he was found wanting. It was Stacey, that bitch cat at number 33. After years of walking delicately along the fence line, swinging those curvy hips in a ‘come-hither’ stride that attracted every cat-fucker with a pulse, Stacey finally mis-stepped. She landed with a thud. Jeff sprung to his feet, and with greed in his eyes and a smirk on his face, he dashed in her direction. Alas, at a pace somewhat less than lightening speed, he faceplanted the colourbond. At first he wasn’t sure whether the thump he heard was his head or his ego. He shot a look to the left, then to the right, before realising with horror that Stacy’s perky arse had cleared all 2.2 metres just nanoseconds earlier.
It was immediately the talk of Fig Street, but never under-estimate the power of a middle-age dog in desperate circumstances to side with denial. Why yes, he’d missed Stacey on this one occasion. One could be mistaken for thinking his speed was to blame, but really it was because he wasn’t trying at all. I mean, he had I full stomach…a big lunch… you know how it is? In any case, it had only happened this one time, and so what? Who really cares? It was a warning. Yes, he was letting Stacey off the hook on this occasion. A single incident, without cause. Discussion over.
Within days, Jeff had put it out of his mind and raucous excitement of the Fig street dog gang had mellowed to a few musings. That was, until, a prancy-arse little Blue Wren appeared.
Who could believe it, this little chancer was actually pecking at Jeff’s leftover dog biscuits. First Jeff’s ears sprung to attention, and then his jaw lifted from its comfortable position upon his paws. What this little Blue Wren cunt had forgotten, Jeff Thought, was that while most dogs are content with only attacking cats, Jeff was a master bird-eater. No soon had this thought crossed his mind when his body lunged forward…. Just as….. well… THAT little Blue Wren took flight. But it wasn’t a scattered and scared kind of flight, it was more like a sarcastic hover. He fluttered, then landed less than a metre away. Jeff lunged again. Another flutter, another land. Lunge. Jump. Flutter. Land. Repeat.
Time and time again, that fucking Blue Wren taunted Jeff with its waggly tail and high-flying antics. Briefly, Jeff recalled the time that Bill (the man that lives in his house) took him to the park. A fiver had flown from Bill’s pocket, and each time Bill stepped forward to grab it that fiver seemed to gain a life of its own, flying through the air, only to resettle just a few steps from Bill’s current position. Jeff had thought Bill was an embarrassing dickhead that day, and he was starting to think the Blue Wren was doing to him what the fiver had done to Bill! But what could he do? He couldn’t let this blue-arsed Nancy-boy eat his dog food. Hell, he couldn’t let him live after entering his domain. Doesn’t this Blue Wren know just who he is? The saga continued for a humiliating 30 minutes before Jeff, exhausted, took himself and his shame under the house to hide.
Lying in the dark and burning with rage, Jeff wondered if perhaps, just maybe, the other dogs had missed the whole event. It was a nice thought, but highly unlikely. Those popular dogs had friends in high places. There was Cindy, a Cavoodle (Jeff hated the fancy names they gave half-breeds). He didn’t see Cindy in all the chaos, but he knew she would have had prime position atop the kids’ slide, perched high in her yard. There was also Max, a fucking mutt, who had a whole-of-neighbourhood view from his kids’ cubby house. On one hand Jeff loved that Bill didn’t have kids (Bill would rather ruin his carpet than ruin his life) but Jeff had to admit that he envied the opportunities that kids’ play equipment provided. While Jeff over-thought the whole situation, the Fig Street dogs enjoyed every moment of his suffering, telling and re-telling the story of that Blue Wren, their new hero.
It was on a rainy Wednesday morning that Jeff finally succumb to the lowest of lows. The nail in the coffin, so to speak. While scratching his back on the gate to the veggie patch, Jeff noticed something small and brown dart across the yard.
And then, it happened again.
Is that?
Could that be?
No?
A rat!
Another rat!
And what the fuck? Another fucking rat!
Now the average non-dog reader might wonder what difference it makes, I mean really, he can no longer catch cats and birds, so what’s the problem with a rat? Well firstly, this isn’t ONE rat, it’s a fucking rat infestation. Secondly, rats are vermin. Disgusting, pathetic flea ridden crawling swine that devour not only Jeff’s food, but Bill’s food too. While Jeff only moderately tolerates Bill, he has developed a mildly concerning inclination to protect him from the numerous threats to which Bill seems oblivious. If Jeff can’t protect Bill from a rat plague then what the fuck does Bill need him for?
If Jeff was capable of conscious thought at this point, he would have used it. Alas, instinct dominated his impulses and he ran…and he lost. Time and time again the rats evaded him, and oh how the Fig Street dogs roared with laughter. For days the dance persisted. A rat ran, Jeff chased, the ran won. Repeat.
By Sunday, Jeff was spent. Ready to give up on this world, he wandered to the dead side of the house where he was pretty sure he could not be seen. He wept. Isolated, alone, and hearing only the hushed laughs of other dogs enjoying his misery, Jeff wallowed and wallowed all afternoon. Exhausted, Jeff drifted to sleep. Upon waking, Jeff noticed he was surrounded! Six rats at all angles were peering into his pathetic eyes. Jeff had lost the will to chase. One of the rats stepped forward. “We know you don’t have any friends” the rat said. “and we know you’re old and slow” he continued. “But we kind of like you. You’re an outsider, just like us! Perhaps we could all be friends?” the lead rat asked.
For a moment Jeff considered the proposition. He’d have others to talk to, people who actually liked him! For a moment, a brief moment, he let himself wonder. Then he replied on a racist’s instinct.
“No” said Jeff. “You are beneath me”.