Dogged

(from a chapter of novella in progress. Aussie metafiction, memoir, micro narratives, 2023-2024)

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The officious frump, with the heavily downturned mouth, lives to left of me in a mirror-image, inner-city terrace. I get the impression she hates me, though I don’t know her that well.

Things took a turn along the way, as they always do when people accuse others of being someone they’re not ,while espousing their own questionable virtues at some else’s expense.

Some people are so lost, so self-entitled, so sure they are never wrong, that they become delusional and begin to believe their own lies. These people are everywhere. They never apologise , never take responsibility or accountability for their actions or contemplate the effect their actions have on others. But I can’t allow them to bully me anymore. I will no longer bear their lies and delusions just to keep the peace. I don’t care where they work or what their accolades are. I’ve always been reasonable but I draw the line in places. 

The salient stench of dog shit wafting from over that fence every Summer, the blowflies that settle on every plant in my yard, is unacceptable. I can almost taste it. It’s been going on for years, like living in a giant dog kennel. 

She had not one, but two cattle dogs back then. One of them was quite cute, but a very stinky creature. He liked people, craved interaction, this clever, happy, smelly fella, and he I think he knew I was a push-over.

Day after day, month after month, the cheerful canine would practise, for hours at a time, jumping, pouncing, with as much spring-like stamina as his breeding allowed until he until he scaled it.

I saw his tongue-happy face in boing-boing fashion whenever I was in my yard,

Let me explain that sentence. You’ll need to visualise the term ‘boing boing’. 

It’s not that hard, it’s just the bouncy vertical up/down image of a dog with a friendly face, appearing and disappearing from behind a two metre wall. 

That’s an example of metafiction by the way.

So is this, I’m still doing it… 

Anyway, back to the neighbour’s dog…

One morning, I wake to Percy the dog,  bouncing on my head, licking my face, like he’s very happy to see me. The stench is overwhelming. 

Lewi was still living here then, so this is a verifiable fact out in the real world, If you can find him and ask,

off this page,

And beyond the possibility that this is a work of fiction, which it isn’t, it’s a memoir piece,

Percy was tired of being cooped up in that shit-drenched yard. He wanted to explore the neighbourhood, so he figured out how to jump his fence, and get me to open my back gate to set him free, which I immediately did – just to get rid of him.  I woke up to the dog on my bed many times over, often returning him to our next door neighbour without receiving a single apology, a thankyou or assurance the recurring issue would be dealt with.

He was smart, resourceful, focused, and most importantly for a good cattle dog – determined.